


A Balancing Act

by Nattish



Series: A Balancing Act [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Genderbending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:39:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nattish/pseuds/Nattish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has lost his parents, friends, and all sense of security. Hogwarts is a lonely place for the boy who used to have it all. Then, one day, he finds comfort in someone unexpected -- Harry Potter, who is keeping a most tantalizing secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story before "Half Blood Prince" came out. So, for the most part, it takes the first five books into account; some of book six; and none of book 7. Thanks goes to dacian_goddess and oddnari for beta'ing!

Pansy is staring at me again. It's all she can do. I have a reputation in my House for hexing those who try and talk to me. I wouldn't hex her, but she doesn't know that—which is why it's surprising when she grabs me by the wrist as I dash through the common room.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

"Out."

I pull, but she doesn't let go.

"You're always _out_ ," she says quietly. Others are staring, some blatantly and some from over their textbooks. "You can't just mope around in the corridors, ignoring everybody. Draco, if you need to talk—"

"I don't."

Her grip on my wrist tightens. "But if you did need to talk. About your mum—"

"I said _I don't!_ "And there is a CRACK.

Pansy puts her fingers in her mouth, staring in shock. Apparently I zapped her through my skin—a hex. It was an accident, but she doesn't know that either.

Her eyes well up with tears. She looks ready to storm into her dormitory, but as an afterthought she closes her fist and clobbers me in the face. I cry out. Heat spreads across my cheek and temple. I think Pansy is running away, but the sound is obscured by a commotion: Crabbe and Goyle asking me if I'm okay, Theodore Nott laughing, and some girl mangling a healing spell on me.

I shoot flames from my wand. They all stumble back, and I charge through the exit before anyone can speak. _It was a mostly harmless spell_ , I think, _more bark than bite._ _If anyone is hurt, they're not in more pain than I am._

I go to the Owlery, and find my eagle owl regurgitating some fur and bones. When he finishes, I ask, "Still no news from Azkaban? Nothing from dad?"

The owl blinks, ruffles its feathers, and darts out the window. I suppose that means, "No."

It's not that I expected anything, not as though they let high-security prisoners send postcards. It just pains me to think of my father locked up with evil, foul criminals. He may return to me an empty shell, if he returns at all.

I sink into the straw and bird shit, staring at the moon. I think of Pansy. Tonight wasn't the first time she'd made me bleed.

***  


I was eleven years old, back home after my first term at Hogwarts. Mum and Dad had set up a welcome home supper in the best dining room, but I was in no mood for feasting and sweets and gifts. I had just been rejected by a girl for the first time. I remember sitting in mum's lap, crying. My tears fell into her perfumed hair as I watched dad stare out the window.

"I hope you've learned a lesson, Draco," he said. "You can't go around hexing girls if they refuse to kiss you."

"I didn't _want_ to kiss Pansy. I was just seeing what it was like."

"You _should_ be focusing on your Dark Arts studies, like I instructed you. I'm paying Severus good money to tutor you. I'm not sending you to Hogwarts to become some Casanova. And the Parkinsons—they're an important family, son. First thing tomorrow you'll write an apology."

"Lucius, really," mum said. She cupped the back of my head, as if to heal me by coddling alone. "Our baby was hurt and humiliated."

From the look on my dad's face, I had a feeling he wanted to remind her that I wasn't quite a baby anymore. He came and sat on the arm of our chair. It creaked, and I thought we would all break it. He tipped up my chin with his large hand.

"The girl really bruised you, didn't she?" he murmured.

It stung when he touched the purple blotch on my cheek. He straightened up, shoulders back, giving off a torrent of power I both admired and feared. 

"But the best approach to getting what you want, Draco, is not brute force. We will discuss it later."

In that moment I felt my parents would always take care of me, even if their idea of care was to teach me the ways of manipulation. The sofa in my dad's study would always be free, his ears mine to confide in. Just as important, Mum's arms would be mine to seek shelter within. This feeling was nourished with every parcel of cakes I received from her while I was homesick at Hogwarts, with every morsel of knowledge my father fed to me, until at last it was fat in my gut, an unshakable certainty: as a Malfoy, I would always be protected.

***  


If only I'd known that wasn't true. It might have saved me from the grief I feel today, practically orphaned by Voldemort's politics, from which I now do my best to remain ignorant. It wouldn't do to follow in my dad's footsteps. That's my biggest fear: to fuck up, to lose, and to be forever documented as one of the villains of our time.

I push off the Owlery floor, deciding to dig some mischief out of the castle's corners. There is only one thing that cheers me up these days, and that's making other people miserable.

It just so happens that Harry Potter is going to make it easy for me. Around midnight, I spot him on an upper floor. He's oddly subdued when we make eye contact. Curiosity overcomes me when he clenches his satchel to his scrawny chest. He tries to go around me. I block his path.

"What's the rush?" I drawl. "What's in your purse?"

Potter charges into me, but I am bigger. I rip the satchel away, and he stumbles, knocking into the wall. He gropes for his wand as I empty his things onto the floor. A flesh-coloured dildo bounces out.

"Potter," I laugh. "You can't have a girlfriend.”

"Fuck you, Malfoy."

"Look at you. You're a runt. Who would want you?"

His eyes darken. I am bewildered as to why this incident would upset him; if anything, a boy our age should be proud to have his love affair exposed, especially a boy as undesirable as Potter, all skinny limbs and untidy hair. He thrusts his wand out. No matter how scrawny he is, I fear the force of any curse from him.

"Here," I say, dropping the satchel and backing away. "What do I care? Oh, and five points from Gryffindor for staying up past your bedtime."

"You can't take points for this! You're out past curfew, too."

"I _am_ a prefect. What are you going to do about it?"

Potter glares, grabs his things, and scurries away. He doesn't look me in the eye for a week.

It is Potter who interests me, not the sex toy itself. You may be shocked to know this, but at night Hogwarts is a place of sexual deviancy, so I’m less than alarmed. Here are the facts: Second year boys use the ground-floor loo as their masturbation headquarters. (What they don't know is Moaning Myrtle likes to hide in the toilet and spy into their trousers.) Every few days, Filch can be found leaving cum stains on the statue of Mildred the Magnificent (though, he is loudest accuser of young boys who so much as walk by the statue). The new Defence professor is fucking Slytherin girls in his office. Sometimes I can hear the moan of a rapturous cat coming from McGonagall's quarters. Ravenclaws have naked study sessions in the armoury. And so forth. These are circumstances among many. Wandering the halls, I've become the proprietor of a wealth of information that any Slytherin would be happy to work in his favour, but I'm in no state to care. To me, it's amusement and wank fodder. But when it comes to Harry Potter, let’s call him special. I would love nothing more than to root out his secret and use it to make him dance like a puppet.

Tonight I creep along the walls, in search of any affair, romp, or tomfoolery. I stop at a corner, listen for footsteps, feel for magic, and find nothing. It's rumoured that Peeves has this corridor booby-trapped beyond repair, so I am surprised, as I creep on, to see light filtering under a doorway. My heart skips a beat. It could be a professor, waiting to catch me out late. Then I hear a voice. I draw closer. No, it's a very quiet scream. I reach the doorway. The wood vibrates as the scream becomes a whimper.

Is it a girl? Is she in pleasure?

I grip my crotch. I imagine small, flushed lips open wide, and hair spread over the floor—no, over a table—and a hand between full thighs. Perhaps she is with someone, a silent lover. But who?

I crack the door open. It is a standard classroom. Beyond the student desks, there is a large professor's desk, and a body is stretched across the top. She is nude, down to her honey, candle-lit skin. Her ribs heave and her back curves as if struggling against a force trying to bend her in two. A dildo, apparently stuck to the surface of the desk, is her only company. Her thighs clench powerfully as she impales herself, using her elbows and feet for leverage. The dildo bends almost at a right angle to accommodate her, straining as if it's going to pop her open. I am entranced by the plainness of her body: tiny breasts, hair under her arms, bony knees, and long, slender feet. Yet I am eager to see more. Who is she? I can't tell.

I find myself rutting against the door frame. I imagine that dildo is my dick opening up her pink, juicy cunt.

At last, her head lolls toward me. I catch sight of her face—a straight nose and dark mouth. Her tongue comes out. It rubs against her upper lip. What does she taste? Her lipstick, her sweat? I long to wiggle my tongue into her mouth, even her pussy. The thought makes me pulse with lust. I suck in a loud breath. I am so stupidly horny it takes me a moment to realize she has opened her eyes. I stop moving. My stomach drops. 

The girl is not a girl at all. It is Potter. It is Potter lying on the desk. Impaling himself on a dildo stuck inside his—

But how! I have no time to consider this.

I slam the door, ready to flee, but my shoelace is caught in the doorframe. I trip. My shoe slips off. I stumble into a suit of armour. The armour clatters against the wall, wobbles, and tumbles to the ground with a great boom that shakes the corridor, surely waking anyone who lives nearby.

"Damn you!" the armour says. "That hurt. Damn you!"

Potter pokes his naked torso out the doorway, his arm covering his breasts. 

Potter's breasts. 

On him. 

I have time to whimper, "Dear fucking God," before I hear Filch panting in the distance:

"Yes, I heard it, too, Mrs Norris! Lead the way."

Potter's eyes go wide. He shakes his head, looking utterly caught, mouth hanging open. "No, no, no," he says.

From afar, a lantern floats into view. I scramble up. I grab Potter by the arms and haul us both into the room, shutting the door quietly.

I curse. “My shoe’s outside!”

Potter is trembling. I struggle not to look at his tits, his vagina. God, _his vagina_. I look instinctively at the dildo standing wet on the desk. Near it, there is a candle still burning.

Potter opens his mouth to speak. I hold up a finger and stride over to the desk. I snuff the candle. 

Blackness.

"Malfoy?"

"Shut up."

"The room is spelled silent."

"No, it's not. Trust me." 

Potter may have gasped. No time to listen. I'm wracking my brain for a determent spell. 

" _Vito_!" I say.

Filch and his cat scrape around outside. The suit of armour complains in its metallic, muffled voice. "Pick me up. Pick me up this instant, you. No, not by the armpits, that's uncomfortable. I've lost my head. No, down here!"

"Which way did he go?" Filch growls. I imagine him sniffing side to side, in time with his cat. "What's this? The shoe of a sneaky little nuisance! Which way, my sweet? Did he run? Lead me to him..."

Silence.

" _Lumos_ ," Potter says, and I'm forced to see the horror on his face. His wand arm covers his chest and the opposite hand covers his crotch. He says simply, "Don't tell."

"Don't tell what? Everything's perfectly normal."

"Please, don't tell anyone."

"How the fuck did you even do it, you crazy pervert? That's some advanced transfiguration. I've never even heard of it. Or was it a potion? No, you couldn't do that..."

"It's not," he sputters, "it's not..."

We pause. He’s staring at me as though _I'm_ the one wearing girls' bits.

Then understanding creeps in. It breaks into my consciousness like the sun from behind dark clouds. This is not a spell, a charm, or potion—it is the biggest secret of the Boy Who Lived. And I have it in my possession, the information that could crush Potter's ego, reputation, and closest relationships. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. I take in his anxious face. It was beautiful before and is now murky white. Those eyes are round with entreaty. He knows what I can do to him. And to think I almost let the bugger get out of this!

Staring at Potter's strange body, I am acutely aware of my good looks, my wealth, my place in society, my blood, and every significant facet of my life down to my penis—the fact is I am now superior to Harry Potter in every way. I suddenly feel as powerful as my father.

Now...what to do with such a gift!

"Stop looking at me like that," Potter says. "Malfoy, I swear if you tell anyone I'll hex you halfway to Hogsmeade."

"I might be willing to keep the secret. Depends on what I get in return."

"What do you want? You have money."

I sift through my mind for any object attainable through Potter's fear. 

"I've heard rumours of an invisibility cloak..."

"They're just rumours."

I know he’s good at lying. That serious face gives no clues. If he has a cloak, he will guard it tooth and nail.

"What have you got, then?" I ask.

"Don't know. Fuck. I've got a map—I mean to say, I can get you into the kitchens. Anytime you like."

"No. Try again."

"Well, I know all the secret entr—I mean." His breathing picks up. His hands begin to shake over his privates. "I don't know what you want! You tell me."

"Oh, Potter." I shake my head and back toward the door. "I thought our secret was important to you. I thought you didn't want anyone to know about your...abnormality. Guess I was wrong. See you."

"Wait," he says, reaching out with the hand covering his crotch. I fight not to look. "There must be something."

It is a remarkable feeling to have Harry Potter at my mercy. From this proximity, desperation is clear on his face. It is striking in its vulnerability and begs to be taken and used.

"Drop the other hand," I say quietly.

"What?"

"Go on."

Potter does. His hands curl around his thighs. There is little hair on those thighs, little hair anywhere on his body but for the mop on his head, the thick patch between his legs, and what I saw on his armpits. 

Otherwise, he is as smooth as a child from his delicate ankles to his fine, angular chin.

With no trouble, I take Potter's wand and hold the light to his nipples. They are large and flushed. The breasts themselves are so small you might think they were simply those of a chubby boy, but I know better. This is not the body of a boy, but it is also not a girl's. It has the voice of a boy, doesn't it? It has the pronoun. And Potter's actions have never sung femininity. The longer I think about this, the more fascinated I become.

"I could crush you," I whisper. I move the wand to his neck, and he squints in the light. "I could make you miserable. Make you pay for what helped do to my father, even."

His Adam's apple sinks and springs back up. He has an Adam's apple: another quandary. I wonder if I am the first to see him without clothes.

I clear my throat, and say, "But I can't even stand to look at you."

Potter's eyes flash. 

"I saw you getting off," he says.

"Before I knew it was you."

"It doesn't matter. You found me...attractive."

"A pussy's a pussy." And apparently so, because I'm half erect. I can smell him.

Potter snatches his wand and hurries over to the clothes strewn on a table.

"Your nipples are hard," I say. "Does this turn you on?"

"I'm cold."

"Are you still wet?"

"Well, your cunt doesn't suck it back up when you're done, so obviously I am." He buttons up his robes as he walks toward the dildo still attached to the teacher's desk. "Tell me what you want, so we can forget this ever happened. _Finite Incantatem_." He stuffs it into his bag.

"You've got it all wrong," I say. "I'm not going to let you forget this. I'm going to milk you and your cute little tits until you're dry."

I’m leaning against the wall smirking when Potter comes over. I hope I seem intimidating despite wearing only one shoe.

"Well, you'd better think of something quick, or else," he says.

"You're really not in a place to be making threats."

He flings open the door. I am overcome with a desire to keep him here. "Hold on, Filch is coming," I say abruptly, and yank him against my body, my prick flush against his arse. I pinch his arse hard.

"No, he's not," Potter hisses, wrenching himself away. "You pervert!"

"I'm a pervert? That's rich, considering what I just saw."

We stare at each other for a long time. He seems to want to look down at the erection between us, but doesn't let himself. It's as if this is the closest he's come to one.

At last I say, "During lunch tomorrow, meet me in the alcove on the east end of the castle."

"The one near the greenhouses?"

"Yeah. And don't try bringing your mates or anything funny."

The look Potter gives me could melt flesh, but somehow it makes me happier than I've been in a long time.

***

The sunshine bursts through the autumn clouds. The greener leaves seem to be reaching for the sky, grasping, pulling in all the heat they can manage. The browner leaves rain down like crisp dead snowflakes. If you breathe in deep you can smell the rotting tree bark, old rain, wet dirt, thin air, the wool of your scarf against your face. It is a beautiful day, though far more beautiful for some than others.

Potter trudges through the leaves with his hands in his pockets and his head hung low.

I ask, "What's the matter, lover boy? Bad night?"

No reply. He stops at one end of the alcove, as if awaiting a death sentence.

"Or do you prefer lover _girl_? Speaking of which, where are your tits? I see no tits." No reply. I walk over, and snap my fingers in front of his nose. "Oy! You can't be completely brain-dead. Why aren't you talking? You stupid prick. Oh wait, I forgot—you don't have one of those!"

"This isn't part of the agreement," he barks. "I don't have to stand here and take—"

I grab him by the scarf. He's so startled, he shuts up.

"We had no agreement," I say. "You'll stand there and do whatever I tell you to do, because I own you for as long as you want your little secret to _remain_ secret. Now show me what's under there."

Pink spreads onto his nose. He disrobes, and lifts his jumper to reveal a chest wrapped in bandages. His breasts are squashed flat.

"How long have you been covering them up?" I ask.

"Since I first got them, obviously."

"Don't make me do all the work here, Potter. How long ago was that?"

"Maybe two years."

"Late bloomer, then." I click my tongue. "Shame. Maybe they'd have turned out bigger if you started growing them a little earlier."

"Like I could help when they started growing! Like I'd wanted them at all! And, I should add, you seem very interested in my sex organs for someone who can't stand to look at me."

I back away, eyes narrowing. "Let's get on with this.”

"What do you want?"

"Mouth shut. I'll do the talking here." I make myself comfortable against the wall. I stare at Potter. I like to do that. It seems to make him uneasy.

It also stalls for time. Last night I lay in bed, worrying over the best way to take advantage of him. It wouldn't come down to material things—for Potter had nothing I didn't already have—and the more I considered forcing him to denounce his friends and drop out of Hogwarts, or some equally horrid act, the less feasible those acts became. I had a hunch he would not go so far to protect his image. No, there was a middle ground, I thought—something humiliating that would keep Potter dancing until I figured out how better to use him.

"Right," I say. I pull a folded piece of parchment from my robes. "I've got a list for you."

Potter takes the parchment. His forehead wrinkles as he reads it.

"I can't do this," he says. "Are you out of your mind? He'd kill me."

"I imagine I could have asked you to sacrifice your pet owl to the giant squid or to set your hair on fire at breakfast. Consider yourself lucky."

"Malfoy," he says tightly. "I have to do _all of this_ before you'll leave me alone?"

"I don't think it's asking too much."

"Too much!" He shakes the parchment in front of my nose, trying very hard, it seems, to give me a willpower-induced nosebleed. " _September fifteenth_ ," he reads, " _Show up in my Advanced Potions class and insult Snape for my personal entertainment_. What's the point in that, anyway? You like Snape."

"Never you mind. I love that one. I just had to put it at the top."

" _September eighteenth: Raid the kitchens and leave rotting eggs in concealed locations in the teachers' lounge_. _September nineteenth: Lock the teachers in the teachers' lounge_."

"Not my cleverest of ideas, but they'll all be sick for days. And I know how you love high-risk stunts. But let's get back to Snape."

He clenches his teeth. "How exactly would you like me to insult him? He'd hex me before I finished a sentence."

"Hex you in front of everyone? I think not. Here." I take another piece of parchment from my robes. "I took the liberty of writing this up for you. You'll need to redo it in your own handwriting, of course."

"What's this?"

"Your insults. Feel free to add to them. You're to say it's an urgent message from the Headmaster, so he's sure not to wait to read it."

"No."

"No?" I shrug my shoulders. "No skin off my nose. I guess I better get started on my next urgent message to Snape. The one about the student I caught fucking himself on—"

"Fine," he says helplessly. He smoothes down the front of his robes, as if trying to make sure his breasts are invisible. "How long will this go on?"

"No worries, Potter. Just follow your calendar day by day. It's made out through this month. I'll have another for October. I'll probably be pulling you aside from time to time, giving you extra chores and whatnots in between assignments."

He shakes his head sadly as he stuffs the papers into his pocket. "I'm sure you will."

I am so eager to see the misfortune Potter is about to bring upon himself that I'm the second student in the classroom on September 15. I take my self-delegated seat beside Granger and her mountainous stack of notes, knowing she won't pester me like my old Slytherin friends or try to engage in intellectual conversation like the Ravenclaw I sat by on the first day of class.

"What are you so happy about?" she asks unexpectedly. Some things are too good to last.

"So sorry, I don't speak Mudblood. Why don't you find another seat?"

"I was here first, and I'm not leaving the front row," she snips. "I don't understand why you insist on sitting by me. There _are_ Slytherins here to partner up with."

We do not speak again as the students file in. It is the smallest class I have: there are Terry Boot, Su Li, and Hannah Abbott, who like to clump up and giggle in the back row; there are Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson, who flirt through every class, which bothers me to no end; and then there are Granger and me, who don't get along but brew fantastically in each other's company.

Usually Potions keeps me leaning forward in my seat, but today I can hardly keep myself in one place. I am tapping my feet and flicking Granger's notes off the table by the time Potter shuffles in with a sweaty, crumpled note in his hand. Surely he's been debating whether or not to even show up.

"Sir, the Headmaster," Potter says, hesitantly, "he asked me to bring you this urgent message."

Snape thrusts out his hand, and receives no response. "Hand it over, Potter. You've interrupted my class long enough as it is."

"Sir, he asked me to read it to you."

That earns a funny glare. "He asked you to _read_ it—?"

"To Professor Snape," Potter cuts in, loud enough for the class to hear, voice quavering as he recites something even I do not expect:

_For teeth as stale as year-old bread,_  
 _A greasy old lopsided head,_  
 _And gritty nails that reek of shit_  
 _And stained black robes—your only kit;_

_For lice-infested pubic hair,_  
 _A nose too massive to be fair,_  
 _And breath that stinks of rotting meat,_  
 _And corns as solid as concrete:_

_Dear Severus Snape, do hear my plea:_  
 _I know that we are meant to be!_  
 _For if you do accept my hand_  
 _I'll offer you this wedding band._

The class watches in shocked silence as Potter reveals a rusty black ring, clearly transfigured from a cauldron. Their eyes go to Snape. He is shaking with anger.

"Potter," he says, deathly quiet. "You're nothing but pompous, disrespectful, attention-seeking scum. Get out!"

Potter seems to shrink, though he doesn't move a muscle. "So, you don't want your ring?"

"Get out," Snape growls. " _Get out, now_!"

All at once, there is a swirl of robes and a scuffle, and it seems Potter has been hexed, but then it is clear that that Snape is chasing him out of the room. The door slams. Both are gone. The classroom bursts into gossip, some students rushing to spy into the corridor. Granger has her hands over her mouth.

"I don't see them!" cries Boot. "They're just gone."

"Vanished into smoke, probably. That's the way Snape likes to do it," Nott adds lazily from his desk.

"Well, I'm not sticking around to get double the homework if Snape comes back," Pansy says, throwing her hair over her shoulder. "Don't blame me if he bites your heads off. Come on, Theodore." 

They pass my table without a glance at me, though Pansy stares darkly at Granger. I, however, shoot Granger a smile and saunter off to enjoy lunch.

Potter is on his hands and knees in front of the trophy cases next time we meet, in an apron, no less. What a delectable picture he makes with suds up to his elbows and wax smeared on his cheek.

"I didn't tell you to write a poem!" I say. "And that ring bit—brilliant! I thought steam was going to come out of his nostrils."

"Figured if I was going to get detention, I might as well tell the bastard exactly what I thought of him. Came straight from my heart."

"Potter, I have a new respect for you."

He throws a wet rag into his soap bucket and says, "Thanks," sounding more than a little irritated. After several minutes of scrubbing the frame of the Charms trophy case, he says, "Still can't imagine why you'd want to put Snape through that. Thought you were good old mates. Not that I care about him. Hermione nearly died."

"I saw her face. You should be ashamed, scaring your friend like that. Priceless."

"She cornered me in the common room and lectured me for ten minutes. If I had a mum, no doubt that's what she would have acted like. What do you want, anyway?"

"You don't want to know," I mumble.

Potter absently pushes his glasses up his nose. "What?"

"Never mind. I've got something else for you to do."

"I know. I've got the list."

"This isn't on the list."

Potter sits back on his haunches, wringing his apron in his hands.

"Don't look at me like that," I say. "You saw this coming. I want you to do my homework."

In the back of my mind, I know this is a stupid idea. It's not as if I need more free time to skulk around in the Owlery. I push this thought away.

"What do you have?" Potter asks.

"Well...Potions, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes—"

"Any Muggle Studies?"

"Hell, no. Why would I take that rubbish?"

“Because apparently we take none of the same classes, and it would be the only one I knew anything about."

"Potter, don't start whinging again. You were being nearly pleasant a moment ago."

"I don't know the first thing about Arithmancy or Ancient Runes. I've never opened a book on either! How do you expect—?"

"You've got that over-achieving best friend, haven't you? Figure it out." I dig a stack of textbooks out of my satchel, and they tumble to the ground, overturning the soap bucket.

"Damn it," he says, springing onto his feet. He kicks some water at me, but only a couple suds make it onto my shoes. "I've got this corridor and two others to do, Malfoy! How do expect me to do your homework? No, I won't do it!"

"No matter to me. I suppose while you're thinking about whether or not to accept, I could just write a letter to my friend Rita Skeeter."

"What?"

"Yeah, you see the other day I ran across something newsworthy that I'm sure she'd appreciate. She's really a fine journalist."

Potter seems to stop breathing. He reaches for his wand. I wonder if I should grab mine. When he swishes it, the spilled water returns to the bucket.

"How long do I have to keep doing all this?" he asks, glaring.

"I don't know," I can honestly say. "We'll see how well you do with that list I gave you. Until then..."

The school is in constant chatter about the Boy Who Loved Snape, and The Boy Who Was Caught in the Teachers' Lounge with a Basket of Smelly Eggs, and The Boy Who Mrs Norris Sniffed out After He Broke the Stained-Glass Window in the North Tower, and The Boy Who Came to Breakfast in Bright Magenta Robes. I take distinct pleasure in shouting, "Show us your knickers, sweetheart!" amid the catcalls. Ironically, he is now referred to as The Girl Who Lived. No one can figure out what has brought on this behaviour. It is rumoured that Madam Pomfrey accosted Potter and kept him under evaluation one night (to no conclusion). It was then rumoured that Snape gutted him that first historic day, and the Harry they now know is a zombie.

It's all entertaining enough, but I'm quickly becoming bored. My favourite parts are not even the pranks themselves—they are the weak gasps Potter makes when I pull him aside to add onto his load. I sometimes make up assignments on the spot just so I have an excuse to touch his arm or shoulder. I even think them up while I wank. Today I don't have to initiate contact myself. Potter drags me behind Hagrid's hut during Care of Magical Creatures, the only class we have together, shaking so hard it's making his hair stand up more than usual.

"This shit you're having me do just gets more humiliating, Malfoy! _October thirty-first_ ," he reads frantically from the list, _"Sneak into the kitchens before the Halloween feast and spike all the pumpkin juice with Firewhiskey. Also, put some pubes into the teacher's entrées, especially Snape's._ First of all, you're disgusting. Second, it would be a miracle if I could do that, let alone do it without getting caught."

"You haven't been the stealthiest criminal, have you?"

"What'll I be doing in June, for fuck's sake? Strip-teasing for Hagrid? I'll be expelled at this rate!"

"Actually," I say to him, and it feels so good to break the news, "In June I'm planning on making you forfeit the Snitch in the Quidditch Cup—if I let you make it to the Quidditch Cup, that is."

"N-no, I couldn't," he says. "Are you joking? I couldn't. I won't! They'd revoke my captaincy if I did that."

"I'm not saying you should make it obvious. Make it look like you meant to win and then let the other team have it."

"You're crazy!"

"Maybe so, but you're still going to do it."

He puts his head in his hands, pulling his hair painfully. The sight makes something twinge in my neck. My blood rate is picking up and my veins are throbbing with annoyance at Potter's clear and shameless act: trying to look mistreated, indeed!

"Malfoy, I can't do my homework because every hour I'm not in class I'm in detention," he says. "And while I'm in class, I'm falling asleep at my desk because I have stay up all night to do _your_ homework. Hermione is _this close_ to figuring out I've been copying _her_ homework for you. My friends don't want to talk to me because I'm always in a bad mood, not to mention they think I've gone mad. And they might revoke my captaincy, anyway, because I've missed the past three practices. Malfoy. Have some compassion, for God's sake. My life is falling apart."

"That's sort of the idea."

"Malfoy." He looks up, eyes sparkling, hands reaching for my robes. "What can I do to get myself out of this? This needs to be over. Tell me."

By now, I'm breathing fast. All I can think is that I wish he would cry or commit some equally embarrassing icing-on the-cake act, so I could laugh and push him off me. I don't know if those girl bits have an effect on Potter's pheromones. They never seemed to in the past. I don't know the extent of his abnormality, only what it looks like and how it makes me feel...

Yes, I know what I really want. All these petty pranks, they're just decoys intended to keep Potter from knowing what desire really burns within me. The image of his undulating, sinuous body in a deserted classroom—it haunts my nights.

Can I ask it of him? Is the satisfaction of lust worth exposing myself?

"Yes," I say deeply. "There is something, actually. Lift up your robes."

He blinks. "Again? You really like tits." He starts to pull them up.

"It's not your tits I want to see," I say. He's stricken silent when I start to unclasp his jeans. I find some perfectly masculine boxer shorts. I shuck them off.

"Malfoy, we're out in the—"

"Shut up."

There is that patch of black hair. It was wet and matted in the classroom. Now it simply hides the object of my hunger. How I want stick my tongue in it. But I will save that for after, when it is dripping with juice and I can fuck it with my hand and taste what it has produced for me.

"Put your leg around me," I say quickly, pushing Potter against the back wall of the hut. I look around. No one in sight. Best make this quick if I want to spare myself any possible conversation.

"But, but—what the Hell?"

"Don't you _dare_ say a word," I hiss.

"But! We can't. Erm, what about protection?"

"What, like a potion?" I ask, with my nose against his ear. How clean it smells. I put my lips to it. How embarrassing this is all going to be in a few minutes!

"Well, I—"

"Fuck, it's not like you're going to get pregnant, are you? God, I'm so hard." I hoist his leg around my waist, realizing afterwards that this makes it difficult to pull up my robes to get at my prick.

"Malfoy, this is nutters!”

He claws my shoulders, trying fruitlessly to free himself. His wand is trapped between us. The feeling of him writhing helplessly makes my cock harder. I rub it against his pussy, so desperate to split it, fuck it, plough it, if only my robes would come up.

"You said you wanted to get out of this," I say. "I'm giving you an out! We'll only do it once, I swear. Then we'll never talk again."

"Not here," he moans, "not—like—this."

He wedges an elbow into my ribs, sending me staggering into a nearby tree, where I strike my head on a knot. I shout in pain.

"If not pregnancy, what about diseases?" he is asking.

"I don't have any diseases," I bark, and turn away to calm down in privacy. I touch the back of my head. Not bleeding. "Fuck, you've completely ruined it for me."

When I turn back, Potter is seething on the ground. I wonder if he was telling the truth about wanting protection or if he simply finds me unattractive.

"Meet me in the same classroom at nine o'clock. Bring your protection. You're not getting out of this." I start back to class, not so much as glancing at him. "And you'd better make it good for me, or else I'll make you do my bidding for the rest of sixth _and_ seventh year."

***

The Malfoy library, while it was my father's intellectual domain, overrun with books of dark and philosophic and artistic natures, was unquestionably the decorative domain of my mother. She was a flowers and frills sort of lady, with an affinity for pink draperies, chairs, and lampshades, which dad threatened to set afire every time they argued about who brought home the bacon and whose right it was to keep house any way she pleased. I think dad only nagged her about it because she always apologized first and then showered him with gifts and affection.

Dad knew how to work women, you see. That's why I approached him one day not long ago, and found him with a hand-painted lilac teacup in one hand and a book called _Torture Made Easy_ in the other.

He took me by surprise, asking without looking over his shoulder, "Is this where you ask me about girls, Draco? We've been skirting the subject for days, and it's becoming less thrilling with each encounter."

"Dunno."

"Judging by your excitement over the subject when I told you, I suppose it has to do with the ball your school will be holding in conjunction with the Tri-Wizard Tournament." He put his teacup on the bookshelf instead of the doily. Mum would kill him. "Are you fretting over finding a partner? What about your friend Pansy?"

"We're already going together, so..."

He nodded, flipping a page. He hummed—at me or at the book, I didn't know. 

"The school year hasn't started, and my boy has an escort to his Yule ball. I don't know whether to be proud or concerned."

"Actually. I meant we...we're _going together_. As in, well, seeing each other."

He gave me a look I couldn't read. "Is that so?"

"Yes, it is."

"And this is about...kissing her? No? Well, have you thought about it?"

"Dad," I said, chin sinking into my chest. This had been a bad idea.

"Oh, yes, I forgot," dad said dryly. "It's that time in my life when my son expects me to stay out of his life unless he wants something from me."

I rolled my eyes, trying to figure out why I hadn't gone to mum. My father took pity, leading me to the window seat. We watched trees sway and tiny birds perch on branches. Then I spoke.

"What about sex?"

Dad inhaled slowly, carefully. "What about it?”

"How do you get her to do it?"

"That's something I haven't had trouble with in a very long time."

"Um..." 

I thought about mum flirting with dad at the dinner table, her smiles that made dad's harsh eyebrows relax. 

"Ew," I said.

Dad let out a low laugh, taking my shoulder and pinning me to his side. His ribs were still heaving as he said, "My father and I first talked about sex when I was a little older than you. Of course, he thought I was inexperienced at the time. Old fashioned fool."

"Was it with mum, though?" I wondered.

Dad leaned close. "Don't tell anyone: your father's a one-woman sort of chap."

"Maybe I will be, too."

***

The most valuable lesson my father taught me about girls was that you had to take charge. Potter isn’t really a girl, though, is he? I don’t know. But I struggle with what this ordeal says about me. I decide not to worry about it tonight. Now, if only my palms would stop sweating. If only my brain would not relate the word _sweat_ to the word _wet_.

I arrive at the deserted classroom and take a deep breath. I tell myself I have nothing to worry about. I have the upper hand here. In short order, Potter arrives and is disrobing.

" _Colloportus_ ," I murmur, and hear the door seal shut. I cast a silencing charm for good measure.

"Neither of those seemed to work when I was here," Potter says, pulling off his shoes.

"Because Peeves seemed to have jinxed the place to block obscuring spells and whatnot. Pretty clever of him. Almost Dark magic."

"How do you know that?"

I don't answer. He's all flesh now. There are no bandages on that soft, nude chest, thank Merlin. He's glowingly handsome, and this is from me, and I'm loath to admit anything pleasant about the boy. Girl. Person.

Our eyes meet. It's my move.

"Pants," I say, scratchily. He doesn't understand, so I gesture with my finger, _Pull them down_ , and turn away to cough. I take the opportunity to adjust my erection. Don't want Potter knowing how eager I am. I turn back and find him right under my nose.

"Let's hurry," he says.

"Horny little fuck, are you?"

"Malfoy." He makes a solemn face. "I thought you wanted to get off quickly. That's what you said."

"I said I wanted you to make this good for me. That doesn't mean bumbling through it like a couple of animals."

Potter turns away, glaring at the wall, revealing the straining cords of his neck. The moon glows behind him and the torchlight flickers on his skin, fluid, like trickling gold. He seems to shine, all at once mysterious and entrancing, a treasure for me to pillage.

"Get on with it," he says.

What else can I do? I take Potter into my arms and put my lips to his neck. I have no plan. I just stand and caress the warm flesh with my mouth. He shivers. He draws his arms around my shoulders. I pretend it is out of desire to stay close, though I realize I am stretching Potter onto his toes and he has to steady himself.

I would like to keep exploring, but his hip comes into contact with my prick, and it is an awakening. I jolt out of my reverie with the pulse of my erection. Then I envision the two of us together, as though watching it through a window: Potter waiting patiently to be fucked and me acting like a sentimental arse.

I pull away and grind out, "On your back. On the floor. Take this." I whip off my cloak.

Down there Potter looks as helpless as I've ever seen him. I rub my prick through my trousers.

"Legs apart," I whisper. "Yes. Hands on your pussy—no, open it up. That's good. That's nice."

He is wet, so wet it glistens when he spreads the folds with two fingers. He wants me. I feel such joy that it aches in my belly. I have to get started. Wait, no. There's time yet. Best enjoy this if it will be our one encounter. Best savour the image of Potter's hands framing his pussy, his secret. His eyes are on mine. I can't place the emotion. I can't bear to think that he might not be enjoying this. But he's wet, right? Yes, he is. He reciprocates my feelings. That's what those eyes say: _come and get me, fuck me._

"Now put your fingers in," I say. "Deeper. Yes, that's nice."

It's sick on a level. Or, rather, surreal. I'm watching Harry Potter fuck his pussy on the classroom floor—demanding that he do it! And Potter complies eagerly, with wrinkled fingers soaked to the bone, protruding white knuckles bending, digging those fingers deep.

It is too much to watch. I tug out my dick, trousers hanging around my hips. I work the foreskin, stalking around for the perfect angle to see this sight.

Potter waits, quiet. Should I forget the sex and shoot on his face? No! I want to kiss that face, touch that face.

I drop to my knees, lay between his thighs. I relish in the sweetness of my cock against him.

 _Feel that?_ I want to say. _This is what you've done. You've made me yearn. This is what you do to me when I think of your legs spread and that rubber dick between them. You may not feel the same, not even a little, but I haven't felt such passion, such purpose, since before everything was taken away from me._

It occurs to me Potter had a hand in taking everything away. But in my lust, this concept is hazy. Am I forgiving him with this one act? Am I avenging myself? It is a blur.

I must feel more skin. I tear at my shirt and chuck it across the room, and lean down so I'm lying on his chest. I bring our mouths close, but somehow cannot bear it. It's too much to kiss him, too humiliating. He inhales sharply when he feels my hot dick flop against his pussy. His _pussy_ , I reflect with a long groan. It's one thing to think it, to see it—it's another to feel it pulsing under me.

Potter keens. I bring us cheek-to-cheek, my arm supporting his neck. "It's so hard," he says. "It's so hard. I didn't know—oh, I never thought—"

I put his hand between us and wedge my cock into his fingers. They squeeze too gently for my taste, unsure of the correct pressure, afraid to hurt me, as if this is the first dick he's ever touched.

It hits me I am about to plug a virgin. Surely Potter has never...

I let my mouth trail along his cheek, coming to rest on his ear. It is cold as I suck it into my mouth. By the time it is warm, I am pumping hard into his hand. He murmurs something. He's breathless, and I can't understand. I have to stop. Have to hear...

"What is it?" I ask flatly, unable to convey in my voice the same feelings that churn inside.

"Condom," he says, eyes closed.

"I don't know what..."

He points weakly, and I kneel, reaching for his robes to remove a tiny packet I've never seen the likes of.

Potter covers his face with his arm, saying, "Can't believe I'm about to do this with you."

"What is this thing?" I ask, turning the packet over in my hand. It is flat and foil. 

"I told you, a condom."

"Well, what does a _condemn_ do?"

He looks about to smile. It is odd, especially from this distance. He takes the packet and blinks up at me with calm eyes. 

"A _condom,"_ he says. "It's a Muggle invention. For protection."

"What do you expect me to do with it?"

"You put it on...yourself, and it catches the sperm."

"Clever. For Muggles. Why would you be carrying one around?"

"I put them on the dildo sometimes," he says, with embarrassment. "They're lubricated. It's sort of sexy."

"They make it easier, then? I thought pussies came that way."

"Sometimes you need a little help."

"Pansy never needed help," I mutter, watching Potter rip the packet open with his teeth.

He snorts. I feel the air on my face. "Maybe she was consenting."

"Shut up, you know you want this, too," I say, becoming annoyed. He's ruining the mood. "All that cooing at my crotch and shit. Don't pretend to be helpless. You can leave anytime. I'm not strapping you down." I feel the condom's slimy pointed tip. "This might be okay."

"It's going to have to be. And I didn't coo."

"Yeah, you did. Like a little bird." I take on a high-pitched voice. " _Ooh, Draco, I love your big hard cock_."

"I knew you were a bastard, Malfoy, but I had no idea it extended to your sex life. God, and so full of yourself—you're not that big. I can't stand you."

"And now the bird's feathers are ruffled. Well, maybe if I'm nice to him he'll suck my dick later. You may not like me, but I'm going to like you a whole lot by the time we're finished."

"Whatever you say."

"Finally, you understand."

After much bickering over the condom ("It's going to stop the blood, my dick's going to fall off!"; "No, it won't, hold still!") _,_ I have my penis wrapped in rubber and am wondering if the sex will feel half as good. As it turns out, I sink into his pussy in suitable awe over just how amazing it does feel. It's not as wet as I prefer, but so warm. It's warm everywhere else, too, on my thighs where they slap against Potter's, on my arms where they hold him close, on my face, where I press it to his neck. I take a piece of his throat into my mouth and suck on it until it is swollen. I tongue it, and have Potter squirming like he is on fire. He puts his hands on my head, stroking from my hairline to the back of my neck. I look up. I can't tell if he knows what he's doing. I'm not about to stop him. It feels lovely to be touched with care for the first time in so very long.

My cock swells with lust, and I rock and rock, impatient. I suddenly feel like one of the bumbling animals I mentioned before.

"More, more," he says, his head thrown back. "More...deeper..."

"My cock," I whisper, suddenly engrossed in his pleasure. "Say it, my cock."

"Your...cock."

"What about it?"

"It's nice. It's..."

"What else? Tell me what it feels like."

"It's big in me—ah!" He begins to tense up.

"That's what I want to hear. Yeah, keep telling me. Keep talking."

But he convulses around me, whimpers, and is no longer in a state to speak. He lies limp, sweating beautifully.

I take Potter behind the knees and lift his legs. His arse goes clear off the ground. His pussy consumes me. It's all I want, all I know. Suddenly, I'm lost in some whirring corner of time and space. My skin is tingling, pushing everything inward. The pressure builds, and then I come hard into the condom. I drop Potter and fall onto his shoulder.

It was less satisfying than pouring my seed into an open body, but still I'm at ease. I roll onto my side, pushing damp hair from my eyes. The body next to me is inviting, yet I can't bring myself to touch it.

Potter's eyes are wide without glasses. He looks like he wants to speak. He bites his lip and looks away.

"I changed my mind," I say suddenly. "I want to keep doing this."

Somehow it came out sounding like a question.

Potter doesn't answer immediately. He simply crosses his legs. I want to say, _Well, I didn't mean right this second_ , but then he sighs and nods.

"Yeah. Me, too."


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

As I pull my fingers along the books of the Hogwarts library, enjoying the roughness of the binding, the smell of clouding dust, and the groan of over-burdened shelves, I think of happy times in my father's library. There were summers when I spent every waking hour examining his journals, those lexicons of Dark arts, which were filled past the margins with notes from his travels. Mum would sit in the window and marvel at my studiousness; dad would sit next to her and marvel at my devotion and pride.

These memories pain me. Sometimes it's better not to think about my parents, and simply immerse myself in schoolwork.

On my way to the Ancient Runes references I pass a couple Ravenclaws kissing behind a bust of Merlin. I take five points and continue on, reminded of my own love affair. Well, sex affair. Whatever you call it, it was a mistake to force my liaison to do my homework. My marks have fallen drastically thanks to Potter, and I'm now assigned extra work in two classes. At least it gives me an excuse to lock up in the library all day (though, Madam Pince is getting right tired of my face).

I pull out a dictionary and am caught off-guard by a big face on the other side of the shelf.

"Hey," it whispers.

"What the bloody—?"

"Keep it down. Can we talk? We've got to talk. Okay?"

"Who the Hell is over there?"

"You don't remember me? I don't understand. It hasn't been that long, has it? No, surely. We only stopped talking a few—"

"Oh," I realize. "Should have known it was you, Crabbe. No one else can blather on like that….”

"Yes. Um, sure. Do you want to talk? We can stay here if you want or we can—"

"Just get over here," I say, walking down the row to find him wringing his hands. I direct him to a corner where no one is studying, toss my book on a table, and fold my arms. "Make it quick."

"Why'd you send me away? Why are you in here all the time? It's like you've switched to Ravenclaw or something. I don't see why you can't study in the common room or sit by me at dinner."

"It's not you. I won't discuss it."

"Well, I mean...you don't want to be friends?"

I can't imagine why Crabbe is taking my absence so personally. We weren't that close.

"It's not that I don't want to be friends. Get a hold of yourself. You're almost making me feel bad here."

"Pansy says you've been hanging around Gryffindor," he says, bouncing nervously on his heels. "Is that true? Is it Potter? Is he bothering you? I can smash his face if you want. Where is he right now? I can go find him if you want."

"Hold on, what does Pansy care?"

Crabbe looks ashamed of himself. He stuffs his fist into his pocket and glances over his shoulder. "She's says she's seen things," he says. "I don't know what. Don't tell her I told you. She gets really mad when people mention Potter."

"Why? She's never hated him any more than I have."

"It's like she's a different person. Potter and his friends, Dumbledore and the rest, she can't stand them. She's rather obsessed."

"Okay," I snap. "I understand. But she's been talking about me, has she?"

"Yeah. I mean, she put me up to coming to see you. But I would have come, anyway!”

"Never mind. Why did she send you?"

"She wants to see you."

I blink. "Just her?"

"Well, no."

"What, are you all ganging up on me? All I want is to keep to myself."

"You should just come, Draco. Pansy really wants to talk to you. An hour before dinner, she said. In our spot."

Our spot is an abandoned chamber just under Professor Sprout's office. Sometimes you can hear the Hufflepuff Quidditch captain making team plans there, and at one point I could regularly be found accidentally listening. Nowadays I keep away from it, since Pansy and Nott patronize the place doing only-God-knows-what.

Before I go, I have other business.

Two weeks with Potter, and we are forming a routine. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday we meet at _our spot_ , a dusty, spacious storage room in the neighbourhood of Gryffindor tower. I hate to make it seem like I'm accommodating Potter by holding our meetings close to home; in truth, this new room is a long way from the one Filch almost caught us in, and the old man was starting to sniff around again.

I slink in, and find Potter's robes are already on the floor. He's looking out the window, unbuttoning his shirt.

"I see you can't stop thinking about me," I say.

"Don't flatter yourself."

I slide up behind him, kissing his neck. How vulnerable he feels under my roaming hands—his stomach quivering, his bottom lifting up to accept the nudge of my cock.

"How I'd love to give you the pleasure of pleasuring me," I murmur.

I can practically feel Potter's eyes rolling, but it doesn't stop me from cupping his breasts, rolling the flesh under my palms. I bite his shoulder tenderly. Then I lift my head and jab my tongue into his ear. He cries out and stumbles away.

I laugh. "But I'll have to pass. I can't do it today. I came to break the bad news."

"You came all the way up here to tell me you're standing me up?" He glares as he wipes spit out of his ear. "Malfoy, I didn't know you cared."

A flush creeps up my neck. "I had time to kill."

He is looking at me like he owns me, but thank goodness he has that self-righteous sense of nobility and doesn't push the subject.

"How about a quickie, then?" I say. "I'll let you suck me off."

" _Bugger_ off," he says, and yanks his robes on.

I make the journey to the dungeons with Potter on my mind. He's usually on my mind. Aside from homework and the chore of skimming the Daily Prophet for any news related to my father, Potter is the only thing I've come to expect. Without him, that's it: I'm alone again. I suspect I'm longing for a companion, specifically one who doesn’t ask annoying questions.

I enter a room lit by a floating lantern. Its furniture is a rickety sofa, a long table with two chairs, and for some reason an umbrella stand. Crabbe and Goyle are at the table, staring at a chessboard. I'm never sure if they're in it for sport or if they just like to watch the pieces kill each other. Pansy is lying in the crook of the sofa's arm, looking far more imperious than she had in the common room when I hexed her.

I intend to make this quick. "Why are you sending Crabbe after me? You seem in perfectly good health."

"I would have, but I had class that hour," she says.

"I suppose you were washing your hair during the remaining twenty-three hours in the day."

"No need to start in with your silly jokes. No matter how uncivilized you pretend to be, you're not leaving until we've had a chat." She pats the sofa.

"I told you I'm not interested in chatting. I just dropped by to tell you, once again, to mind your own business."

"You’re not grasping something. You _are_ our business."

As she gazes at me, I get the impression this is about more than my recent behaviours. Crabbe and Goyle are looking, too.

"What’s so important?" I ask.

Crabbe opens his mouth, but his confidence shrivels under Pansy's glower.

"Sit down," she says softly.

For the first time, I notice someone else on the sofa. It is stuffed into the corner of the room, so the shadows conceal the slouching form of Theodore Nott.

I say, "The air seems cleaner over here, thanks."

"I can see I'm not going to get through today." Pansy rises and saunters up to me. I can smell her perfume. It's the same as last year. "Do you remember when we were kids you would make fun of me for not having a mother?"

"I never did that."

"Liar. Well, I'd like to tell you that I'd never stoop to the same level, and I hope you accept my condolences on your loss."

"What the Hell? Why are you all corning me, all of a sudden? It's been weeks since my mother—" I grit my teeth. I cannot say it.

She and Nott look at each other. Then she lifts her chin at me and says, "You're my friend."

"A friend is generally considered someone whose company you keep."

"I'm not the one who abandoned _you_ , Draco. You've got a lot of explaining to do!"

"Figure it out for yourself."

"Forgive me if it's difficult to understand why your best friend suddenly stops talking to you, stops looking at you, won't respond to your letters—"

"I _know_ you know. Go on, say it. We're all part of that crowd, aren't we? We're safe."

“Are we?” Pansy says, so that only I can hear. “Because some of us have made our loyalties vague.”

“With good reason.”

She shakes her head sadly. "I can't help what happened to your mother or your father. Just like I can't help what happened to my uncle."

I occurs to me that her uncle is also imprisoned. I only met Walden Macnair once, and he seemed more than unpleasant with his scars and the axe strapped to his back. Pansy idolizes him, and spends her summers at his cabin catching and practicing curses on various animals. Or she used to. I regret having to shun her now, but our separation is not about sadness over anyone's imprisonment or death: it is about protecting myself from what could be my own.

"Look, I'm not going to talk about it," I say, turning to the door.

She touches my arm. "Just stop hiding. Stick around the common room more. You can't afford to separate yourself from us right now. Things are brewing.”

I don't respond. My eyes are getting blurry. I have to go.

When Potter and I next fuck, I take my frustration out on him. I'm blind to the way I pummel him. He shouts himself hoarse, bent over a storage room crate.

"I think you split me open," Potter says, once I finish.

"You bleeding?"

"No, it was a joke."

"Tell a better one next time."

I glare at him as I dress. In the nude he looks smaller than you would normally think. He sits with his chin on his knees, one arm dangling with all the grace of a twelve-year-old. Come to think of it, he's not grown much since those days, when things were simple, when I spent more time with my friends than my enemies, when I was sure who my enemies were; now when I look at Potter, when he opens his legs invitingly, all I see is a person with whom I can take uncomplicated pleasure.

It is well into the night when I sneak into my dorm. I don't go to sleep until everyone else has, which means curfew is always broken.

In bed, I think about the time I was nine and my cat Prometheus was trampled by a carriage in town. I took him home and tried to nurse him, but he only mewled in agony until my dad found me crying in my room. My dad showed me the Killing Curse that day. He said the cat was too far gone to save, and I had to learn what it felt like to make a difficult decision.

If only this rationalization were enough to make it easy withdrawing from my friends. I haven't even been to see my mentor Snape, for fear of association.

I wish my father were here to tell me otherwise, but there is no room for negotiation. I must pull away from Slytherin. And as a distraction I decide to push myself, quite literally, into Potter.

***

It is not a weekend, not our usual rendezvous. I spy him in the late afternoon leaving Transfiguration. He is the last one in the hallway, so I need not fear prying eyes. Potter doesn't stand a chance. I swoop in and grab him around the middle, too busy flying through the doorway of an empty classroom to mind his yelp of surprise.

I lock the door and take control. I force up his robes as we stumble into a cupboard of bare shelves. It wobbles dangerously, having no books or trinkets weighing it down. Potter throws his arms out, eyes wide, and I lean into him until the wobbling stops. I hoist him off the ground, putting his bare legs around my waist. He is startled by my aggression.

"The other day you ream me and now you ravish me," he says. "Is this part of another check-off list? What's next?"

"You wait and see and do what you're told."

"I was wondering where Dictator Malfoy went."

"Shut up.” I throw his glasses onto the floor, and—shit, I kiss him. That’s never happened.

Potter wrenches a fistful of my hair. I holler and drop him.

His expression is both hard and scared. For a second, I think he is going to punch me. His hand reels backwards. I close my eyes, but the blow never comes.

He pushes me, and I tumble into a chair I didn't know was there. Then he straddles me, fisting my hair again, but passionately now, and he begins to suck on my neck like he won't fucking do to my cock to save his life. It tickles. My hips begin to squirm. He must feel like he's sitting on a sack of water.

Soon the heat of his groin penetrates my robes. He bucks closer to me, ankles wrapping around the chair's legs. His thighs are small but strong in my hands. I'm reminded of the night I watched them flex as Potter fucked himself onto that dildo. I get an idea that makes my toes curl.

"You want to ride me?" I ask. He doesn't stop biting my neck, but his hips begin to roll. "Yeah, you like that. Move your hips..."

My cock is filling under him. I can't stand it, anymore. I fling off his robes. This causes his hair to fly away unflatteringly, and I see in the daylight it is tinted auburn on the edges, rather like a halo. I'm so embarrassed with myself for finding it charming.

He rips my robes open around the crotch and reaches into my trousers. He is confident now as he pumps it, making the shaft stand and the head poke out.

I take him by the arse. My prick goes between his legs, touches his pussy, and I'm overwhelmed with desire. I must get in.

"Condom," he says.

"Shit, you bastard—"

With Potter hanging off me hazardously, I stand and bend sideways and grope for his bag on the ground. It's a difficult manoeuvre. It probably looks ridiculous. I manage to get the rubber on my cock, my cock up his body, and his back against the wobbly shelf in a couple seconds.

I must have fucked him ten times over the past few weeks, but I haven't got tired of seeing his tits bounce. My mouth hangs open as I watch the path of his nipples. I wait for the right moment to lunge and suck one between my lips. I can take almost the whole soft breast into my mouth.

He tries to use my shoulders as leverage to help. I can feel he wants to take me deeper, but the angle is too awkward for that. He has little control. I feel a sense of power. I'm delighted that it is up to me to please him, that each hitch in his throat is because of me alone. Call it egotistical if you want. I call it hot as Hell.

As I suck on his breast, I can smell how he sweats for me. It's proof of his lust, I think. I have made him this horny. I'm the reason. I lick up his chest, up his throat, lost in these thoughts. How can he taste salty, and smell so sweet?

He is shaking madly. The cabinet is shaking madly. It's only now that I realize he rarely says a word during sex, yet I can't seem to stop talking.

"You feel so good," I whisper. "Yes, you're so good. Shit, here it comes, here it comes."

I clutch him as I come, fearing I may drop him in my frenzy. In the end, I take us both to the floor in a weak pile and lay against the cupboard. The condom plops heavily onto the floor.

Potter is making small noises beside me. He wipes his face continuously. I notice he is smiling in my presence for the first time. He leans on my shoulder, also for the first time.

"What got into you?" he asks.

"What? It wasn't that good," I lie.

"It was incredible. It was so...wow. That's only the second time you've made me come, by the way."

"So, I gave the best fuck of my life, and I couldn't even tell? Just my luck."

Potter crosses his legs, a habit he has after sex. I have a feeling he's hiding his wetness. When he's comfortable he says, "Your luck, it seems, is that you're the richest Pureblood at Hogwarts, with two adoring parents, a slew of worshipping cronies, and a star role on your Quidditch team. And now you have control over someone you hate. Right, Malfoy. Really unlucky."

I wasn't upset, but I had to bite back.

"Aside from the length of my cock, you know nothing about me," I say. "So, piss off."

"You don't know anything about me either, but that doesn't stop you from passing judgment on me and my friends."

"Have I said anything?"

"No, but in the past..."

"Yeah, well. I don't have the inclination at the moment."

I lie on my back, shiver, and summon my cloak. I don't offer to share my makeshift bed.

After I'm nearly asleep, he asks, "Why not?"

"Why not what?"

"Why don't you have the inclination? You haven't been causing me any trouble lately. Why aren't you forcing me to follow your list of stupid pranks? And why do you sometimes hang around with me after we're done here?"

"I'll answer your questions if you answer mine."

"You have questions?"

"I can come up with some."

He pushes his way onto my cloak. I've never realized what a bully he can be. Maybe I've rubbed off on him.

"What's there to know?" he asks.

Sure, I think, like there's nothing the son of a top Death Eater wants to pick from Harry Potter's brain.

I say the first thing that comes to mind. "What's your favourite colour?"

Potter laughs flatly. "Are you serious? I dunno. White, I guess."

"A symbol of your virtue."

"Don't be stupid. Hedwig is white."

"Your owl?"

He nods. There is a silence during which I'm oddly conscious of our shoulders and hips pressed together. I dig my wand out and enlarge the cloak. He rolls onto his side and props his head on his palm, demanding, "Well, what about my question?"

"Hmm."

"You're not going to answer, are you?"

"I don't cause you trouble anymore, because...I have better things to do."

"Like ghost around in the library," he says. I shoot him a look. "That's what Hermione said. You've also been taking up all the good study spots, in her words."

"I take them up, do I? All at once? Tell her to untwist her prissy knickers."

"She says you sit by her in Potions. That's a bit weird. Do you fancy her?"

I splutter, holding back laughter.

"Maybe that's why you're doing this with me," he continues, twisting his cloak in his fingers. "To get closer to her."

"That," I choke out, "is completely off. And completely disgusting. I'm not about to touch the likes of some Muggle-born twit."

"But you'd touch the likes of me?"

"Yes, because—" I stop. I stare darkly. "You're craftier than you get credit for."

"Now you have to answer."

"It's my turn to ask. What's the story with this?" My hand darts out and slips between Potter's legs. He swats it away.

"There's no story. It's me."

"It's not a charm gone amuck?"

"I don’t know. It's what I’ve always had," he says quietly. "And it’s always been a secret.”

“No one knows but me?”

He shrugs. “There’s my Aunt Petunia. I was a baby when I was sent to her. She bathed my cousin and me separately, and made it clear when I was young that I had something to hide. Didn’t take long for me to work out that I was the only boy with an innie.”

My mouth curls. I can’t contain my snicker.

He rolls his eyes at me, saying, “My turn. Why do you want to have sex with me? You could have your pick of normal girls.”

"I’m avoiding that analysis,” I say truthfully. When Potter huffs, I add, “I suppose liked what I saw _before_ I knew it was you. Happy?”

"Er, yeah, thanks,” he says awkwardly. “Never thought myself a picture of feminine beauty. But I guess you're not too picky when it comes to looks after dating Pansy Parkinson.”

“Yeah, yeah, pug nose—real original, Potter.” I sit up, my back to him. I don't want to talk about Pansy or anyone else from Slytherin. Which, of course, means Potter does.

"What's the story with her?" he asks.

"Nothing. We were friends when we were small, started dating in fourth year, broke up at the end of fifth, and haven't really spoken since."

"Hermione says you haven't been speaking to any of your friends. Why is that?"

I whip around. "What's with you two? Is she your spy? What do you care how I spend my time?"

"It's no big deal, Malfoy. She notices things, that's all."

"Well, tell her to take notice that I'll hex her fuzzy head if she doesn't keep her nose where it belongs. Goes for you, too. Get off my cloak."

I pull on my clothes and leave without a word.

It's odd that I let him work me up, since his comments normally slide off me like ice. Now I'm left wondering what to do with myself. I can't go to the library. Granger will be there, for sure, and I don't want her in my business anymore than she already seems to be. I curse myself for letting a couple of Gryffindors run my life. Feeling like a ruffled Hippogriff, I stop in my tracks, turn around, and charge back to the room, where Potter is already buttoning up his robes.

"So," he says calmly, "I answer your personal questions, but you can't even listen to mine."

"I'd hardly call your twat personal, seeing as I've bonked it dozen times."

"What’s up?” he asks, clearly wondering why I’ve returned.

"Sit down. You want to get personal, then we'll get personal."

His expression is tight. I have a feeling he will simply walk out, but I'm surprised when he sets himself on the edge of a desk and folds his arms. So far, he's had little interest in me outside fucking. I wonder what has piqued it now. His reasons belong to him. I'm simply pleased to pose a question that's been budding more in my mind with each passing day.

"If you were born with a vagina, why do they call you Harry Potter?"

"Er, what?"

"I think it's a simple question."

He's so confused he has trouble opening his mouth. He says, "Of course no one's going to assume I'm a girl when I look like a boy."

"Well, right now you look like a boy. But you were a baby when they gave you that name, you see. And there's not much difference between a girl and a boy when they're that young, except for their bits. So how could your parents have known you would turn out to look like a boy when you obviously had a vagina?"

He is quiet for a long time. Has he never considered this?

"Only conclusion I have," I say, strolling up to him, "is that someone gave you the name 'Harry' knowing you would turn out this way, and kept everything else a secret."

He is looking more distressed by the second. I've cut into some painful part of his mind, something he avoids digging up at all costs.

"I know you're not that daft," I continue. "Have you never thought about this?"

"I just thought I was..."

"What, Potter? Weird? It's not news. You _are_ weird. A complete freak."

He backs away slowly, looking everywhere but me. Then he grabs his things and runs out of the room.

 _Huh_ , I think. I'm less satisfied than I thought I would be. I skip dinner, choosing instead to sit by the window and watch the sun drop slowly behind the Earth.

***

It is a lonely weekend. I don't catch sight of Potter in the corridors, during meals, or loitering near either of our meeting spots. It's not that I miss him. The only reason I begin loitering near those spots myself is due to pent-up lust, you see, and being a young lad it's only natural to seek out the easiest conquest.

I look for him under the guise of prefect patrolling, but find only other students trysting in dark corners. I feel minimal joy in weeding them out.

By Sunday night I resign myself to the library. A Potions essay is due, and I will be damned if Granger scores higher. Though, I have half a mind to send Potter an owl demanding he present himself lest I reinstitute his list of embarrassing duties.

I close my eyes and smirk, imagining the look on his face to such news...his cherry mouth parting...

"Constipated, Malfoy?"

I snap out of my fantasy to find Ron Weasley standing at the edge of my table with a shit-eating grin on his face. Granger appears just as I’m reaching for my wand.

"Ron, there's no need to pick a fight, and since this table's taken—let's go," she says, and breezes toward the Ancient Runes section, dragging the Weasel behind her.

Potter also appears out of the corner of my eye, trying to rush behind them without me noticing. _Stupid_. I flick my wand and jinx his legs. He trips, and his books fall out of his bag.

"Oh, sorry," I drawl, standing and watching his arse as he gathers them. There's something protective in the way he holds the books.

He doesn't even look at me when he says, "They know I've been spending a lot of time away from Gryffindor lately. I don't need them to see me acting funny around you, so..."

As he turns away, I make a come-hither motion with my wand, pulling his books backward onto my table.

"Damn it, Malfoy!" he hisses.

His friends are at full attention now, and Weasley eagerly makes his charge. Potter holds up a hand, as if to say _I'll handle it_. I assume this deflects Weasley, but I'm mostly busy thumbing through his library pickings:  I'm Not My Gender, I'm Just Me and Wizard on the Outside—Which on the Inside? There's also a magazine called Transgendered Transfiguration Today.

"Looks like you took mean old Malfoy's words to heart," I say with amusement.

"It's for Transfiguration," he says, looking over his shoulder. "We're doing a unit on, er..."

"I'm not the one you need to lie to, Potter. But since you're so interested in units, maybe later you can do mine."

He flushes angrily. My heart skips a beat, for I am the source of this reaction.

It hits me that this is not a new feeling. This feeling is as old as our relationship. I got a thrill at age eleven coercing Potter into a duel or seeing his temper flare when I abused his companions. My spirit soared as I chased the Snitch alongside him. But I wasn't chasing a ball. I was chasing his response. His drive to win sent me reeling with passion, a passion which now exudes itself from my loins.

"Look," he whispers, resting his fists on the table. I realize his friends are watching. He's trying to make it seem like we're in a standoff. "People are starting to notice something's up. Maybe they don't know I'm with you, but they know I'm sneaking around. They know something is different. We can't get caught."

"You may have reason to be paranoid, but I know better. I guarantee you people don't sit around saying, _Merlin, I wonder where Potter is—probably off fucking Malfoy with his man-cunt_. Get a hold of yourself."

This reality doesn't seem to comfort him.

"Come on," I insist. "Let's get out of here. It's been forever."

"If four days is forever, you've fallen harder for me than I thought."

"Sorry?"

"Yeah, who knew pompous, Pureblood Malfoy was a huge poof?"

My teeth clench. Potter can be an annoying bastard, but I'm trying to stay reasonable. _And_ _I'm horny_.

"Look,” I say, “I know you're putting on a little show for your mates, but—"

"There's no show. You need to back off." His hand seems to flick towards his wand. Maybe he's not bluffing.

"Fine," I snap. "If you're going to play that way, I'll just have to re-establish our fun list of assignments."

"You wouldn't dare. If you make me angry, then how will you get your rocks off at all?"

"Just like you to be arrogant, Potter. You think your freak show of a cunt is all I can get?"

"Maybe it is. You keep coming back."

"Just wait and see where mouthing off gets you."

A female voice cuts in. "Is everything all right?"

Potter jumps at the sight of Granger. I realize we were almost nose-to-nose, though not at all in the manner I'd prefer it.

"I thought we were studying," she says to Potter. She doesn't even make eye contact with me.

As they trail away, with Potter leaving the books on the table, I barely stop to wonder if Granger heard our conversation. Somehow I don't care. The notion of protecting my pride is becoming less crucial every day I hear no news about my father, as though by mere physical and emotional distance I am identifying less as a Malfoy and more as my own simple, primal being—a frightening proposition.

I gather my scrolls and make for the door. Maybe I can grab dinner before the rest of my House shows up.

As I walk out, I overhear two hushed voices. Between the empty shelves of a bookcase, I see half of Potter's face and the back of Granger's head. Weasley is nowhere. I edge closer, and with a flick of my wand I can plainly hear them.

"If I didn't know any better," Granger was saying, "I'd say your studies were slipping. In fact, the only intensive classes you're taking this year are Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts, and it's not like that one's any trouble for you."

"And this concerns you why?"

"Obviously, I'm concerned for your future. You're not even taking Potions, for goodness' sake, which you need to become an Auror—and I thought that was what you wanted. Is something wrong? You've been acting funny all term."

"No, Hermione. It’s just...after Sirius...I didn't feel like taking on such a load."

"That should have made you try harder than ever to become an Auror."

Potter looks out the window.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she says gently. "That doesn't explain why you've been acting out, though. Does this have anything to do with Malfoy?"

"What? Why?"

"He's been pretty subdued this year, as well. In fact, he's even bearable to me in Potions. But then, out of the blue, you and he make that scene back there. If Malfoy were up to something, you'd tell us, right?"

"Oh, yeah," he says, visibly relieved. "I imagine he's wound up about his dad being in prison, or something. Dunno why he jumped down my throat, all of a sudden."

"Yes," she mutters, "or maybe it's his mum. I hadn't thought about that. So if it hasn't got to do with Malfoy, then what else—"

"Hold on, what about his mum?"

"She died. This summer. It was all over the _Prophet_. Didn’t you read about it?"

"Er, no."

" _Really_ , Harry. You’ve got to start paying attention to things. Well, supposedly she committed suicide. But if you ask me, it sounds suspicious. I know she'd be upset when her husband was thrown in Azkaban, but to kill yourself when your son needs you most? Of course, I don't know anything about Malfoy's mum. Maybe she was that cold-hearted."

My wand begins to tremble. I fight the urge to set fire to Granger's skirt.

"I suppose even a jerk like Draco Malfoy has to mourn," she says.

"Right. So, erm, speaking of my classes...I wonder if you could do me a favor."

"Oh! Do you need me to tutor you? Because I was hoping you might ask—"

"Sorry, no. Erm, it's more along the lines of...writing me a note so I can get into the Restricted Section. Prefects can do that, right?"

"Under certain circumstances. What's it for?"

"I'm doing a project. A special project, actually—for Care of Magical Creatures. And I sort of wanted to surprise Hagrid, so I can't really ask him to sign my note."

"Harry, I can see right through you. I really wish you'd tell me what's going on."

"Nothing. Never mind."

At that moment, Weasley butts in. I can't see him from my angle, but it seems he's been in the Quidditch section and is now going to commence with a very dull conversation on Chaser strategy with Potter. I remove the eavesdropping spell and turn to leave.

And run into Pansy Parkinson.

"You know, it's rude to spy on people," I say.

She narrows her eyes, looking more tired than cross. I wonder if she's been up all night playing catch the snake with Nott.

"Join me at dinner?" she asks.

I am too tired and angry to fight it.

The Great Hall is largely bare. Most students don't come in until after sundown. Perhaps it's the murky evening light, but there is a certain coldness in Pansy's eyes. Her movements are stilted, as if she were pushing through water. Even so, she serves me a pork chop, and I feel strangely at ease, reminded of the old days. The emotions I felt at Granger's mention of my mother start to melt away.

"I need you to trust me," she says. "I need to know your intentions, as I can only protect you for so long."

"I have no intentions."

"There's going to be a meeting on Halloween. I was designated to fetch you."

"Designated by whom?"

"Never mind," she says, eyeing two second-years prancing past us. "Let's just say the subject-matter will be relevant to you."

I chew this over, along with my dry cut of meat.

"Will Nott be there?" I ask.

"I guess you'll have to show up and find out."

As if I had summoned him, Nott slinks into the Great Hall with Crabbe and Goyle on his tail. With his hands in his pockets and a disdainful wrinkle to his nose, he looks an awful lot like I imagine I did six months ago.

"Shall I expect you, then?" Pansy says quickly. She knows I will withdraw once the others sit down. "It's after the Halloween feast, in the dungeons behind the tapestry of Broderick the Beheader."

"Maybe," I say, and slouch over my meal.

***

Some boys collect Merlin figurines. Others collect chocolate frog cards. I collect letters from my father.

This may be the oldest one, written as a response to a letter I wrote him in first year, ecstatic that I had been sorted into Slytherin.

> _Dear Draco,_
> 
> _I am unsurprised, but pleased just the same. I hope your excitement over your new House translates into your studies and to making many alliances._
> 
> _Friendships, however, are hard to come by in Slytherin House. You may be surprised with how competitive your peers turn out to be. I fear your mother and I have sheltered you in such a way that an environment of cunning and shrewdness will come as a shock. But in my heart I know you're up to the challenge. You will rise to the top in short order._
> 
> _Use your wits. Remember who you are._
> 
> _\--Father_

My attempt to draw some wisdom out of dad's old letters has left me vacant. If I took his words literally, I would certainly not be going to this gathering tonight. Use your wits, I would say to myself. Remember: "who you are" is no longer someone who makes appearances at junior Death Eater meetings. Still, I’m desperate to know what’s going on. I place the old scrap of parchment into a box containing numerous letters and photographs, and gather myself.

Halloween, as it happens, was only a few days after Pansy confronted me, and on a Friday to boot, so I made the reluctant decision to cancel my plans with Potter. I've scarcely seen him all week, except in Care of Magical Creatures. I worry he is avoiding me, but upon further inspection he is merely spending loads of time in the library—the Muggle section, no less.

"You ready?" I hear.

It's Crabbe, shifting like a nervous pup on the threshold of our dorm. He, Goyle, and I make our way through the dungeons in silence.

"Happy Halloween," Crabbe says to Broderick the Beheader, who waves his bloody prize at us. We are allowed to slip through.

I am met with an ear-splitting sound in the wide, echoing chamber: the Weird Sisters playing out of someone's wand. Such common, offensive music. Why are they playing it? There is a smoking cauldron of orange punch and candy and cakes on floating trays. Out of a crowd of thirty or so students, about half are wearing pumpkin hats. Odd choice for Death Eater garb. For a moment, I think we’ve gone to the wrong meeting, and then I realize—it's a sham of a Halloween party, in case we are caught. Ha! I'm so moved that I snicker. I forgot how sneaky my peers were.

"I'll have to decline," I say to a fourth-year Slytherin, who asks me to dance. She seems pretty, but stupid.

I catch a few suspicious looks from faces I know well, Bulstrode, Higgs, and Bletchly among them. There are even a couple Ravenclaws present. I sink into the corner closest to the doorway, chewing a pumpkin biscuit to settle myself.

"I was getting tired of speaking in subtext all the time, weren't you?" someone shouts from the centre of the room. It's Pansy. An appreciative buzz moves through the room. "That's why we're here today. Let's get this done, then, so we can get on to more entertaining things. I know some of you are itching to go to actual parties."

The music dies to a whisper.

"Some things I was told to discuss," she says, and Millicent Bulstrode appears by her side with a roll of parchment. Pansy glosses over it. "First, we've taken too long to organize ourselves. Some of us are taking private Dark Arts lessons with Professor Snape. Others are not as fortunate."

"She means you're poor," someone coughs.

Laughter fills the room. Pansy smiles.

"I thought it would be a good idea to pass on the knowledge, so to speak. What about pulling together some group lessons amongst ourselves?"

There is a general approval.

"Someone would need to head it, though," Bulstrode adds.

Pansy looks at me instantly. I didn't even think she noticed me come in.

"Draco," she says sweetly, and all heads turn. "Would you like to volunteer?"

I narrow my eyes. "I'm very busy."

Her eyes bore into me, even as she says, "Fine. Theodore, you can do it."

"I'd be honoured," Nott says, casting a dark look at me.

Amusing choice. I haven't attended any lessons with Snape this year, yet I'd still make a superior tutor to Nott. I expect Pansy to move down her agenda; instead, her attention remains on me.

She says, "Draco Malfoy, I should mention, has been acting very odd this year. I'm sure some of you have noticed."

The Ravenclaws look confused, but most Slytherins are leaning forward expectantly.

"Poor thing hasn't spent a relaxing night in the common room in weeks, has cut off all contact with his Housemates, and spends more time roaming the corridors than a ghost. I heard a rumour he's been hanging around Gryffindor tower every weekend. It's almost like he's betrayed our side."

Her speech has dumbfounded me. I would bolt, but my brain seems to have lost connection with my legs.

Pansy merely stares that deep, blue stare. "If his behaviour has alarmed anyone this term, just know this: He seems to have taken on the role of our own Hogwarts spy."

Someone sniggers. Everyone else looks around, nervous. Then Pansy smiles sharply; it's enough to cut the tension in the room. There is a quiet round of applause directed at me.

"So don't interfere with him, or you'll have to answer to me," Pansy says, and at long last breaks my gaze. "All right, next item—"

The next item remains unknown to me. I slip out of the chamber, frantic and confused. The crisp castle air hits me like glass.

"Hey, no ripping the tassels!" cries the man in the tapestry, but I am trying to understand, for the life of me, why Pansy would do such a thing. What sadistic spirit possessed her?

 _I can only protect you for so long_ , she had said.

Protect me from what?

Then I have the plummeting realization: She was protecting me from myself. For a month, I was clumsy. I was blind. I was as good as skipping around Hogwarts, holding Harry Potter's hand. Maybe at another time and place no one would have noticed, but despite my persistent need to ignore that a war was brewing, a war was indeed brewing. Every child of a Death Eater was itching for a way into the high ranks, and if that meant throwing a fellow under the proverbial bus—well, this was Slytherin, and we drive busses for a living.

 _I'm an idiot_ , I think. And Pansy is telling me so in her twisted manner.

For my sanity, I must get as far away from the dungeons as possible. Ironically, my destination of choice is Gryffindor tower.

Five minutes later, I arrive, panting from the climb, trying to convince myself I'm out of shape rather than hyperventilating. I search for any sign of their common room entrance, and come up short but for spotting a lone first-year, who looks ready to turn in for the night.

"You there, stop," I say.

Startled, he cries, "It's not curfew yet!"

"Give me a parchment and quill." He reaches shakily into his satchel, and in a moment I am scratching out a message:

 _Meet me at our spot in your tower._ I hesitate, and then add, _Now, please._

"Give this to Harry Potter," I say, thrusting it back. "Read it, and you'll find yourself on trophy waxing duty for the rest of the year."

Another short trek, and I'm pacing in the dimly lit storage room. I trip several times over the same mop. I kick it away. I will my breathing to slow. I'm oddly hot. I take off my heavy outer robes and tap my fingers on a table until Potter arrives.

"Erm, hi," he says, resting against the door.

"Hello."

"I thought you cancelled."

"I'm un-cancelling."

"Why?"

"I don't know," I say honestly.

My head feels like it's unravelling. This is apparent to Potter.

"Is something the matter?" he asks.

"I need..." _A fuck, a hug, a kiss, a friend._ "...something from you."

Since I have never seen Potter look at me with concern, the expression is foreign. It takes a moment to process, and then I am taken aback by the sincerity in his eyes. I am also taken aback by this green color I've never noticed before.

"Maybe you could elaborate," he says.

"I don't know!" I exclaim, and thread all ten fingers into my hair, pulling my scalp back. Maybe my face will come off and I’ll bleed out and I won't have to think about difficult things anymore. What good could come of confessing to Potter that _his_ was the only company I could think to seek out? How could he respond except to laugh, and go back to his friends? "Never mind," I finally say. "I've got to go."

But a firm hand stops me. "Hold on, you git. You can't drag me out of bed and then take off. Sit down."

I plop into a window seat. It occurs to me I may have just taken an order from Potter.

"You got out of bed?" I say.

I stare at his striped pyjamas and socked feet. I stare at his folded arms and cocked, inquisitive head.

He sighs. "Look, Malfoy. I know I've never done this before, but you look like you need it."

There is no point in asking what he means. He falls to his knees, reaches out for my trousers, and undoes them at the groin.

My jaw drops, something that happens when I experience sudden cranial blood loss.

"Just lean back," he says.

I do. The window is frigid, even through my shirt. I gaze up into the starry night, and then feel a strong, controlled wetness I have never known.

I want to speak. There is suddenly so much to shout to the world. Hello! I'm getting head! It feels like springtime! Why has this never happened before! Can it never stop, please!

None of this sounds bizarre at the moment. None of it comes out of my mouth, either. I reach for Potter, eyes still gazing into heaven, trying to convey the message manually. I squeeze his shoulders when it feels best—that is, when he pulls his tongue up the bulging vein underneath. Also, when he peels back the foreskin and sucks on the head like an ice lolly. Also, when he brings his hands into the action. Also, everything else.

Having never felt pleasures such as these, I make short work of finishing. I look down, wanting to warn him, wanting to be polite when he's being as polite as a person can reasonably be. He's gazing back, however, with that same deep look that often takes me into its grasp. I watch my dick spurt onto his face.

Feeling a little ashamed of my lack of stamina, I watch Potter stretch onto his toes and remove his soiled glasses.

"I don't know about you, but I'm worn out," he yawns.

"Oh, right," I say, somewhat disappointed. I stand. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Actually, I thought we might lie down."

And this is how I find myself half-nude in a candlelit room, laying on a pile of robes and old parchment with Harry Potter. It's not a luxury mattress, that's for sure, but it's strangely comfortable.

"Do I have come in my hair?" he asks. "No? Good. You were pretty wound up, weren't you?"

"Mmm. I was talking with some old friends. You were right, I hate to say. I've been indiscreet. They sort of called me out on it."

"They know what we're doing?" he asks, turning white.

"No. They just know something's off, and you've got a lot to do with it. I guess now they think I'm spying on you."

"But you're not a spy...?"

"If I were, do you think I'd be talking to you about it?"

"So they know we're acting funny, and you thought the best course of action would be to pay me a visit. That makes sense."

Potter pulls off his top, and I am met with bare breasts.

"Hang on, where's your wrapping?" I say. "Your chest was flat a second ago, and now it's—"

He holds the shirt against his chest again. The breasts disappear once more.

"Concealment spell," he says, wadding up the shirt to use as a pillow. "Learned it from a book for transvestites. Cool, right? Who knew the library had so much useful information."

"Speaking of acting funny, you've been cooped up in there all week. I was beginning to think you were moving in on my hang-out spot."

Potter is thoughtful for a moment, light flickering on his brow. He says, "Malfoy, you're a prefect, right?" I frown in suspicion, but nod all the same. "How would you feel about getting me into the Restricted Section?"

"A little annoyed, actually. Why should I go out of my way?"

"Because I was nice enough to suck you off just now, and I might do it again if you're cooperative."

I snort. "A Slytherin at heart."

"You have no idea," he says, staring expectantly.

"What information are you trying to get at?"

"Can't say."

"Then I can't let you in."

"Be reasonable, Malfoy. I didn't complain when my jaw went numb a few minutes ago."

I preoccupy myself with wiping off my flaccid penis until he realizes I'm going to act bored until he gives in.

"All right," he says. "I suppose you're the only one I can talk to about it, anyway. The books in the main library...I've looked through them, and they're interesting enough, but I don't think they apply to me. I'm not a woman trapped inside a man's body or vice versa. I don't think I'm a hermaphrodite, either. You were right the other day. I don't know what I am, and it's time I figure it out."

"So you're going to see if there's a section in the library for supremely unusual genitals?"

"I'm going to see if there are any books on sex-related magic. Maybe someone cursed me when I was little, and no one ever knew. And maybe I'll see if there are any obscure spells for figuring out your chromosomes and whatnot."

"Your chromo-whats?"

"Oh, they're like, er, things in your body that hold your DNA."

"DNA?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't know a ton about it, but the point is females have two X chromosomes and males have an X and a Y. What if I have some wonky combination, though? I think I've heard of things like that happening before..."

I am mystified by Potter's scientific prowess. "How is it you know all this and I don't?"

"It's just something that comes up in the Muggle world. I don't know."

"Who knew Muggles were clever."

"Everyone but you, apparently."

He rolls on his stomach, revealing that full, pert arse I often clutch at lustfully. I wish he would take off his pyjama bottoms. I admire the curve of his back, the sinewy muscles that stretch up his sides to protruding shoulder blades. I'm not horny, but I want to touch him. The feeling is unfamiliar.

Our makeshift nest is beginning to feel like a mat in a cave. Potter shivers.

My wand is on the floor next to his glasses. I grope for it and say, " _Caleo_ ," and red warmth emanates from the tip.

I scoot closer, nearly flush against him. I use the wand to trace the ridges of his spine, melting away his tremors. I touch his shoulder, his flushed neck, his ear. With the wand tip, I push his hair behind that ear. There's his scar. Once it was mythological to me. Now it's familiar, like the boy himself.

"That feels lovely," he says. "Feels like sinking into a bath. Where'd you learn this one?"

"My mum."

He is silent. I can sense he is thinking very hard.

After a moment he says, "I've always speculated about why I'm different. Don't know if I would have got off my bum and started looking for answers if it hadn't been for you. Your harassment, really."

"My advice is often mistaken for harassment."

"Guess you've been trying to steer me in the right direction for a long time, then." Potter bites his lip. He shifts closer, so that my wand arm is draped over him. "I sent a letter to the Ministry, requesting my birth records and anything they have on my parents, as well. Maybe they can shed some light. Draco?"

My eyes pop open. When had they closed?

"Does this mean you're going to get me into the Restricted Section? Write me that note?"

He's so close now. I hardly notice saying, "Yeah, sure."

"Do you want to come with me? I mean, since you're always in the library, anyways..."

I nod dumbly, and Potter flashes a smile.

It takes me a second to realize my blood is coursing because this is the longest we've talked about anything not related to fucking. I'm lightheaded at the prospect that our intimacy now transcends popping off a load in a rubber sheath—and I may just like it.

***

We waste no time, and drop in on Madam Pince the next evening. It's a Saturday, the least likely of days students will be in the library. Potter says Granger is studying in their common room, and I know for a fact Pansy and Nott are whispering away in some remote corner of the dungeons. Madam Pince is the only one available to furrow her brow at us when I present her with the slip.

"This isn't a professor's signature," she says.

"Really?" I say lightly. "I'm not a professor? Suppose I must have forgotten." Beside me, Potter bristles. "Professor Snape is forcing me to tutor Scarhead, here. Our project's due on Monday, so we need to get a couple of advanced books quick. I believe that's within the rules, isn't it?"

Pince gives me that scowl she's been giving me for weeks, as if accusing me of wanting to do lewd things with her books.

As she leads us to the Restricted Section to undo the rope, Potter hisses, "Malfoy, are you mad? I'm not even taking Potions."

"She doesn't know that. Besides, it was the first thing to pop into my head."

"You have twenty minutes," Pince says, and grumbles all the way back to her desk.

My eyebrows shoot up. "I forgot the library closes early on weekends."

"We'll be fine," Potter says, already scanning the shelf for some subject unknown to me.

"You expect to find everything you're looking for that quickly? Yeah, right. Got news for you, Potter, I can't pull off that Potions lie twice in a row."

"Then you'd better hurry up and help me. I'm looking at science magic. Maybe you'd be interested in the sex curses over there."

"You know me so well."

Soon the only noise is the crinkle of pages turning and the occasional mutter.

"…Cell grafting...cell growing...crafting your own children. What? That's got to be illegal..."

"Hexing off a person's—ugh, no."

"By testing the vibration in one's cells just after a spell is cast, one can estimate the amount of magic it took to generate the spell in units of..."

"Barnaby is cited as possessing the world's longest nipple. This fact is under dispute because she allegedly acquired said nipple in a wizard's duel in 1947. This gives her an unfair advantage compared to her long-nippled Muggle counterparts."

"Examining one's chromosomes—sex and gender," Potter says, after a while. "I think I may have found something!"

I go look over his shoulder, clutching a dusty book of my own. His looks recently published.

"Oh, no," he says. "It's a potion. And it's way over my head. You don't think you could—?"

I shake my head. It is university-level wizardry, beyond me, and the list of ingredients is two pages long.

"I don't even think Hogwarts carries most of that. Here's something, as well, though," I say, as consolation.

In my book there is a long list of common gender- and sex-related curses. At the bottom there is a box containing the words _Touch your wand here to begin the sexual curse diagnosis_. I do. All the text dissolves, and in the centre of the page words materialize:

> _Confused? Me, too! But not for long. Just answer honestly the following questions and I'll tell you the one or more curses your symptoms seem to point to. Ready? Let's find your curse!  
> _

"Malfoy, this is brilliant," he says, eyes shining. I feel a little smug. We walk to the table where our discarded research has been piling up. I watch closely as Potter begins to answer.

> Do you know for a fact one or more individuals cursed you? ---Yes or no.

Potter touches "no" with his wand. That question disappears and another one replaces it.

> _How long has your gender or sex been in question? ---Recently, for a long time, or since before I can remember._

He chooses "before I can remember".

The questions delve into surprising detail, ranging from obvious ones involving his genitalia to ones about excessive lactation. Next is:

> _Do you menstruate? ---Yes or no._

Potter chooses "no." Knowing this, I resent ever being made to wear a condom.

> _Are you or have you ever been pregnant, despite this? ---Yes, no, or I don't know._

"No."

> _Upon puberty, did your voice change? ---Yes or no._

He looks at me. I shrug and say, "kind of."

He chooses "yes".

> _Do you have a violent aversion to dairy, beef, or other bovine related products? ---Yes or no._

"Erm," he says and quickly touches "no" with his wand.

 _Thank you!_ the book says, at last. _I will ponder your answers and come to a conclusion in just a moment. In the meantime, why don't you browse through my other published works? These include Self-Diagnose Your Sexually Transmitted Curse, Squib or Not A Squib— _

As I watch Potter bounce on his heels, I can't help wondering what he'll do when he finds out the answer. If it's curable, will he try and fix it? What will change between us if he becomes a full-fledged male? I grimace at the thought of being with someone large and hairy.

The book is still listing off titles when I hear a shrill voice in the distance. It's Madam Pince tossing everyone out of the library.

"Damn it," Potter says, looking around urgently. "Come on, book, come on."

> _And don't forget the best seller Double, Double, Boils and Trouble: Your Guide to Magic Rashes!_

"We've got to clear out," I say. "If she comes and we're not checking out Potions books..."

Her voice is getting closer. Potter darts over to his bag, leaving the book on the table. He pulls out something I have never seen before, a cloak that flows over his fingers like molten silver. He kicks the bag under the table, pulls me close, and throws the cloak over our heads. It feels as light as air and smooth as water. It's possibly the most lush, expensive one item I've ever seen, much less touched. How could he possibly have kept this thing a secret for so long?

"I knew it! I want one," I say indignantly.

At that, Potter nearly bursts into laughter, but just then Madam Pince appears nearby, scouring the rows for us, and he stuffs his face into the crook of my neck.

"Mister Malfoy, have you gone? Potter?" she says, looking angry she should have to raise her voice in her own library.

I am frozen. I've been fully enveloped in Potter's body on many occasions, yet I've never felt as intimate with him as this moment. His hair tickles my cheek—such sweet, musty curls. He's been flying today. One of his hands rests on my chest, where my heart pumps an erratic beat. The other hand lies against mine. I don't dare move my fingers against his, but I can almost sense the softness of them, almost their warmth, almost...

I hardly notice when Pince walks away.

I know from experience what it's like to draw him close to me. But I think that if I were to do it now and do it wrong, then I'd look like a fool. It's like what I felt that day on the train, trying to get my first kiss off Pansy, except the risk of humiliation surpasses that times ten.

"Do you think it's safe?" he breathes.

"No," I say quickly.

If anyone found out I had kissed Harry Potter, I would be shamed in a way far crueller than merely fucking him. But, I think, as his cheek touches mine, his smooth and mine rough, this is not the Potter I thought I knew. This is not the Potter anyone else knows. This one is especially for me.

My hand twitches. Of their own accord, my fingers entwine themselves in Potter's—soft as the fabric against our skin. I let out a shaky sigh. He looks up at me with wide eyes.

There is a slam.

We both jump. The cloak falls off us.

A deadbolt locks.

He lets go of my hand and says, "She's gone."

I watch him return to the book, feeling quite alone.

"Oh, no," Potter says, slumped over the table. " _There is no curse, hex, or jinx listed that meets the criteria you have described. Please purchase another Madelia Rudolph book for additional research_."

My sigh seems to wake him from his stupor.

He turns and says, "Well, thanks for trying. We should start putting these away."

"Er," I say, looking at the invisibility cloak and back at him, "you're not giving up now. You just risked us both with that stunt. What was the point?"

"I wanted to know the results. But apparently there are none, so why waste our time?"

Sullen and slow, he heaves a couple spell books back to their rightful places.

"Potter, that book was written twenty years ago," I say. "That was before you were even born. I'm sure there's more information nowadays."

"Why do you care? You don't have to be so helpful."

"I came, didn't I? And I don't...care. I'm interested. Can't help it if I'm academically minded. So, come on. There are a dozen more books we can look through."

Potter stares dolefully at me. It's almost like he needs protecting.

I scoop the cloak off the floor, and say, "Can't believe you would lie to me about this thing. Your old mate Malfoy. Well, seeing as how I'm being so supportive, you'll probably want to pay me back..."

He perks up at last. "I was not about to give that to you, and I'm still not."

"Can't blame me for trying. Why'd you bring it, anyway? If you wanted to be in here after hours we could have used it to sneak in."

"I just wanted this to go as smoothly as possible. Didn't want to get caught sneaking in. Pince has already been asking too many questions about the other books I've checked out." He looks forebodingly up at the shelf, which seems to teeter under the weight of a lifetime of information. "I wish Hermione were here."

"Don't be so dramatic, Potter. We'll find it. And if we don't, I may just write home and see if there's anything in my father's library—if you're good to me. He's got a ton of Dark Arts stuff."

Maybe I shouldn't have said that. By the time I gather a fresh stack of books and reseat myself, Potter's awkwardness is more than I can bear.

"Yes?" I ask, not even looking at him.

"I thought your father was still in..."

"He is," I say, holding back my annoyance. "We do have servants, some of whom are capable of reading, for Merlin's sake."

"Sorry."

The search seems hopeless. The sex magic section is limited, and the remaining books either have nothing to do with Potter's situation or contain repeat information. Every time I look at Potter he seems to be on the same page. I dredge on, as this may be our only opportunity.

When the sun turns orange and begins to sink, I stand to light a candle.

"Incendio," I say, and place it next to him.

"Malfoy," he says suddenly, gazing up at me.

"Did you find something?"

"No, it's just...the other day, when we were talking about who had better luck. You remember—I said you had a perfect life, and whatnot...well, I mean to say is...I didn't know about your mother then."

"I know."

"I wanted to apologize."

Though I normally want to punch people who mention my mother, all I feel now is odd. There is a tingle in my belly and sweat is forming on the back of my neck. Also, I have the distinct feeling that I could jump ten feet in the air if asked. I remember this feeling. It's what fondness feels like. Looking down on him in the fiery light, I find him lovelier than ever. I want to consume him, and I want him to know.

"Potter," I say, so quiet I barely hear it. "It's fucked up, but I think I might..."

I trail off. There is something white barrelling toward the library window.

He follows my eyes and exclaims, "Hedwig!"

He scurries over and pops open the glass just in time for the owl to land on the ledge.

I squeeze my eyes shut. There is little time for nerves, however. Potter is already taking something from the owl's beak. I follow.

"Can't believe she got back so fast," he says. "Good girl, thank you. Go see Hagrid. I bet he's got mice."

He rips open a large envelope.

"What is it?" I ask.

"The records I sent away for. Tonight wasn't a total loss." He makes a face. "But this package is so thin. This can't possibly be everything."

He pulls out a letter, and we lean in and read.

> _Dear Mr Potter:_
> 
> _This is a copy of your official birth certificate. It may be used for school enrolment, employment, obtaining traveling visas, and other official matters. To obtain the actual document you must visit the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic._
> 
> _All the other documents you requested are unavailable at this time. Only your official guardian may undo the hold on them._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Bernadine Withers_  
>  _Office of Witch and Wizard Records_  
>  _Ministry of Magic_  

"On hold?" I say. "I've never heard of that."

I look questioningly at Potter. He is clenching the birth certificate, pale and dazed. It's a wonder he lets me take it from his hand.

I scan it for any sign of peculiarity. Then I see it, just under his birth date: _Gender: F_

"Female," I whisper.

By now the sun has completely disappeared. Silence rings in my ears. Though it is cold and uncomfortable, I lean on the stone wall, arms crossed, and watch Potter drop his head in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

I awoke and my mother was there. I couldn't see her. Her weight on my pillow was enough. Her hands descended upon my face and she touched her cheek to mine. Hers felt wet and hot. It was all coming back to me now. Dad was gone. My father had been taken from me.

This was not the first morning mum had turned up in my bed, nor was her grief reserved for these early, grey hours. She never passed me in the hall without embracing me or smiling a watery smile. Other times she would walk around my father's bedroom, dusting and rearranging his belongings; she replaced his bedding twice the first week of summer, claiming Dad would need a refreshing change upon returning home, and then decided on the original bedding. I didn't think Dad would have appreciated sleeping on daffodil pillows, anyway.

Mum was her own ghost, it seemed, a former force in the household now banished to an ineffectual, ever-weeping existence. The only productive thing she did was write a stream of letters each night. She would write, look anxiously out the window, and write some more. I didn't know who she was corresponding with. I assumed a solicitor for Dad's trial.

It was rapidly turning into a period in my life where I would expect Dad to pull me aside and tell me to be the man of the house, to hold the family together in his absence; however, without him there to reinforce this notion, the task daunted me. So, once awakened and coddled by mum, I would skip breakfast and hide in my father's study. I picked through his personal collections—there was a shrunken goblin's head with hair of fire I had been eyeing since age nine—but mostly I lay on his sofa, reflecting.

Sometimes I would think about Harry Potter. I remembered confronting him in the entrance hall at the end of fifth year. I'd threatened him gracelessly. The anger I felt had not yet subsided, but I learned to channel it constructively. Huddled into the sofa, I let that energy drain deep into my gut, a furnace in those times that burned away any hate, fear, shame, or melancholy. My magic would vibrate, my fingertips would tingle, and every now and then my eyes would snap open and every foreign object from the flaming head to the quills and ink to my great-grandfather's Muggle club would be levitating and spinning at an alarming rate.

I had never done wandless magic before. Dad would be proud when he came home.

I hardly understood the gravity of my father's imprisonment until one dinner in mid-July. Mum was watching me eat steak. I was watching her grow thinner by the day.

"Will we be able to visit him soon?" I asked.

"There are no visitors allowed for his security level."

"Then when will he get out?"

My mother, normally so poised, began to tremble. She clutched my forearm and said, "Don't be like your father, Draco. Be like him. But don't."

I understood, but I didn't.

"We're having visitors tomorrow." She lurched out of her seat. "Dress well."

Mum left the table, and I pulled up my sleeve. Nothing but pale skin and marks from her fingernails.

The next evening I grudgingly pulled on some robes, the kind with ugly lace trim, and climbed the stairs from my dungeon quarters to find my mother embracing another woman. They withdrew, and the woman scanned me with hooded eyes.

"Draco," Mum said. "I know you don't remember your Aunt Bellatrix."

"We haven't met since the day he was born," Bellatrix said. Her voice was both cold and strangely alluring, like the woman herself. She placed her hand on my neck. "So handsome."

I assumed we would take supper, but Mum led us to the formal drawing room instead. I caught them whispering in front of me.

"Is _He_ coming?" asked my mother.

"He is tending to more pressing business. We will arrange another meeting with him."

My mother seemed to melt in relief. I began to worry.

We had drinks by the fire, a sordid affair. I would rather have been downstairs with my Potions books than forced to listen to the sisters' childhood memories and reminisce about my personal childhood milestones: my first word, my first step, my first poo in the grown-up loo. What laughs. Occasionally, Bellatrix leaned forward on the silk cushion, examining me from behind a sheet of black hair. I stared back, half wondering if I could read her mind if I concentrated hard enough. Snape had told me about that once. Legilimency, was it? When this became tiresome, I took advantage of my voluminous, old-fashioned robes and entertained myself with an old fantasy—a faceless witch in the Quidditch changing rooms, fucking herself on a broomstick. Their topic of conversation turned to me, but I didn't notice. The witch was beckoning me, saying, "This stick's not big enough, Draco. I need something better."

"Draco?" I heard vaguely. Mum.

"Yes," I said, and blinked.

"Your aunt asked you how your studies were doing."

Bellatrix was smiling in a most disturbing manner.

I said, "Er, fine. They're doing well."

"Do you have many friends?" Bellatrix asked. "A girlfriend, perhaps?"

"No. I mean. I have some friends. No girlfriend." I sipped my fire-whisky and pretended it didn't sting like Hell.

"Darling, you're not seeing Pansy anymore?" my mother said. "You didn't say anything to me."

"It didn't seem like the most relevant news, since..."

The room grew sombre. My mother's forlorn expression, which had disappeared upon her sister's arrival, returned. She put a hand to her cheek and said, "I'm sorry, Draco. I'm sorry he has done this to us. I'm sorry I let him do this to us."

I wanted to protect her, be strong for her. It was Bellatrix who stepped in.

"There's no need to worry, Cissy," she said confidently. "The Dark Lord will free them in time. Plans are already in the works."

"It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. Lucius _promised_ me our family would not be harmed—torn apart like so many others in the first war. It breaks my heart that my son should have to see his father this way—paraded through Azkaban like a common criminal. He's too young for all this."

Bellatrix sat very stiff. It was the first time the whole night she gave off an emotion other than haughtiness. 

My mother seemed to notice, too. She said to me, "Darling, why don't you see if Tiffy has prepared supper yet? We'll join you shortly."

I was annoyed to be dismissed at this crucial juncture. Always one to mind my mother, I excused myself. Halfway to the kitchen, I backtracked and tucked myself beside the doorframe as they argued.

"You're scaring me to the core, Bellatrix," my mother was saying. "Tell me you're playing a joke. This isn’t good news!”

"You should be pleased. If I had a son, I would feel proud his name was even brought up."

"This is no form of flattery. This is a plot—a plot against my family. He's lost confidence in Lucius since the Ministry disaster. And it's obvious he wants to take it out on my son!"

"Calm yourself, sister. You're paranoid. Just as self-absorbed as I remember..."

"You know this is no honour. I know you do. It's a test of our family's competence. If Draco were to fail this task...he would have every reason to punish Lucius once he's out of prison. Not to mention Draco. He will have no part of this."

"It's not your decision to make. It is my master's bidding."

"If you think the Dark Lord's cause is more important to me than my son's safety," my mother said slowly, firmly, "then you don't know me very well."

For a long while, I heard nothing but my heart thumping.

At last Bellatrix said gruffly, "He can make his own decision. If he's smart, he'll choose what's righteous and pure."

"He's my son! I will make decisions for him!" There was a bang—a fist coming down on an antique table.

I had never known my mother to raise her voice, even less to become violent.

"We will discuss it once this meeting is rescheduled," Bellatrix said coldly. "The Dark Lord is not as patient as I, nor as forgiving. You must think carefully about your words when the time comes."

"My words will not change. Take them with you and let him know! My loyalty is to my family."

"Narcissa," she hissed. "I cannot keep anything from him! Take it back! You must be careful!"

"Then you should leave."

"You're making a mistake, my sister. I made a mistake coming here. I should never have warned you."

There was a rustle of fabric, some quick footfalls—I fell into the shadows just in time to avoid Bellatrix. She looked like a storm cloud hurtling through our foyer. Abruptly, she stopped.

Without turning around, she said, "Draco. You can choose to be like your father or you can choose to be like your mother. It's up to you."

She slammed out. After that, I was too ill to comfort my grieving mother. Except for a trip to the loo to vomit, I stayed in bed the rest of the evening.

I imagined what horrid splendour might be rewarded to me in the coming days. Knowing my mother had endangered herself to prove how much she was against it, this task was clearly unthinkable. But no matter: I would leap over a canyon to save my mother from any threat, be it the Dark Lord, Merlin, or any wizard in between.

The trouble would be convincing mum that she should let me protect her. As it happened, the opportunity came soon. When I was almost asleep the door swung open, and she appeared, stark white against the blackness.

"It's morning?" I mumbled.

"No. I haven't been to bed yet—I can't—" Her breath hitched.

I peeled back the covers, and she climbed in; I felt very much like our roles should be reversed. I couldn't remember the last time I lay with Mum, probably long enough ago that it was appropriate for me to squirm under her nightgown and play hide and seek.

"Draco," she said, as if she hadn't seen me in months.

"Mummy," I said. My head lay on her breast, warm, familiar. Her hands moved through my hair. I felt like a child again, in a good way.

"I'm frightened, darling."

"Don't be," I said, muffled. "I'll protect you."

"I'm frightened for _you_. I'm frightened for all of us. What have we got ourselves into?"

I lifted my head and looked her in the eye. She had clearly been crying for hours. "Whatever it is, I'll take care of it. I'll take care of us now."

I could not ease her. If anything, my persistence made her more anxious, as if she thought I would pull a Death Eater mask from under my pillow at any moment, run into the night, and perish instantly.

"If anything were to happen, Draco," she said, "anything at all, the first person you go to is Severus Snape. I trust him to protect you."

"What do you mean? What do you think will happen?"

She did not respond. If I were a wiser, I would have taken this as a clue. Instead I submitted, and fell asleep in my mother's embrace.

***  


The covers shifted. I opened a bleary eye. Still dark. Closed the eye. A few minutes passed, and I began to shiver. I rolled towards my mother, and realized she was not there. She had probably gone for some water.

CRASH!

My eyes snapped open. There was a pitter-pattering sound, like glass falling. I stumbled out of bed, swiped my wand off the nightstand, and hurried down the corridor as quietly as I could. The ancestral portraits pointed me in the right direction, and also scolded me for walking around in my underwear.

I peered into the torch-lit foyer. There was colored glass on the floor, freshly broken, twinkling. I looked up. 

Two large holes were punched into the stained glass ceiling, by broomsticks no doubt. Movement caught my eye. I dared not budge. I looked only with my eyes to the staircase in the center of the room. There, with their backs to me, were two hooded men advancing to the uppermost floor, where my mother stood, wand drawn, a glass of water sloshing in her hand.

They were far off, but this hall echoed like a cavern.

"We'll make this easy," one crusty voice said. "Hand over the boy, Mrs. Malfoy, and all will be forgiven."

"He's gone. I sent him away. Get out of my home, and I won't make you pay for that expensive ceiling you just destroyed."

"No games. Bellatrix told us he was with you tonight. And I was given explicit permission to do with you what I please if you do not cooperate."

The man had a smile in his voice as he leered up at her, her white gown fluttering near his face. I heard the second man laugh as his companion reached out to touch her thigh. A bolt of rage went through me. My mother's wand jutted out, coming to rest on the man's neck.

"You wouldn't dare," he said, still pleased.

"I would," she said, and smashed the water glass on his head. He shrieked. My mother shouted, " _Confringo_!" and the man's wand exploded.

Next there was a scuffle: my mum and the second man were throwing curses, dodging curses, cracking the mouldings, and demolishing mum's antiques. The first man moaned on the ground, clutching a bloody hand. I wondered if this was the right time to show myself. Would it help my mum or make things worse? I thought they might take me away, and then punish her for not giving me up herself.

At last the duelling man said, " _Incarcerous_!" Ropes shot out of his wand and bound my mother against a pillar at the top of the stairs.

My breath caught in my throat. I emerged from my hiding place, hoping to catch the man while he was helping his companion off the ground.

Mum saw me. Her eyes widened. _No_ , she was saying. _No, no, no, no, no._

I wanted to say something. I wanted to shout _I'm right here, leave my mother alone!_ but when I opened my mouth the words got stuck. I wanted to hex them, but my palms were so wet I thought my wand might fly out of my hand, that is if I could remember one curse, one elementary curse. _Petrificus_ — _petrificus—_

The men were rising. In a split second the decision would be made for me. I disappeared behind the corner again.

"Come on," said the second man. "Let's find this brat before your arm rots off." He took off down the corridor my mother had been standing in.

The other growled into her ear, "You're lucky I don't show you your place right here and now." He turned toward a lower level, and trudged out of sight.

I shot out of my hiding spot and up the staircase.

"No!" mum hissed. "Go! Fly!"

"I'll cut you loose," I said, holding up my wand. " _Fin_ —"

"They can't know you were here! Go now!"

"No," I choked, "you're coming with me!"

"My life is not the one in jeopardy, Draco. Go quickly. Spinner's End. I'll meet you there."

One look at her determined face, and I was forced to comply. I tore out the door. An expanse of frigid lawn lay between me and the broom shed. I was too afraid to look back at my family manor, too convinced the Death Eaters were right on my tail.

In seconds, I was within the clouds. It was wet and almost unbearably cold in here, especially in my state of dress, but anyone flying above or below would be hard-pressed to see me. I shivered, lay flat on my broomstick, and watched passing cities sleep. They were unaware of the danger, I thought, unaware my world was falling apart.

I had visited Snape's home every summer since I started my Dark Arts lessons. My father had said that just because school was out didn't mean studying had to be. I found my way in record time, arriving as the sun broke the horizon.

I landed in the road and ran towards the shabby house, my blood coursing, my nerves frayed to the roots. I couldn't rest until I saw my mother. Surely, she would be here by now. Surely she would have Apparated as soon as those men left. Between the overgrown hedges, a black figure was looming on the doorstep—Snape, waiting for me. She must have contacted him!

"Professor Snape!" I yelled. I reached out for him. "My mum! Did she make it? Is she here yet?"

I knew Snape was a ruthless man to those he deemed unworthy—Muggles, Gryffindors, and the like. I'd never been on the receiving end, personally. And to this day, I admit he's never been cruel to me. Still, that moment was the first time I had ever known what it felt like to hate him—hate him to the core.

"It's too late,” Snape said. “Your mother is dead."

***  


Nightmares of my mother leave me exhausted.

Her hair was disheveled. Her eyes were stormy. _Go!_ she said. How I wish I hadn’t.

Those horrors make it a wonder I get it through breakfast without drowning in my porridge.

Post arrives. I’ve always enjoyed watching the collage of feathers and beaks rain down on us and that moment just before avian-human impact when the owls split off and fly to their respective masters. Not that I expect my owl to show his pointy face.

Ironically, today he does.

"You fiend," I yawn. "Earning your keep for once, are you?"

The owl drops a scroll on my plate, and takes off abruptly. He was never one for conversation.

For a moment, I'm nervous. Could this be word from dad? Not likely. I shake toast crumbs off the parchment and unroll it.

> _Malfoy,_
> 
> _Haven't seen you around in a while. Let me know if you're calling it quits, so I can stop hanging around empty classrooms and looking like an idiot._
> 
> _Dumbledore still won't see me. It's suspicious. He won't even see me to say he can't see me. He has McGonagall break the news. Weird, right? But if he is the holder of my records, I bet you they would have informed him I had accessed them by now, which would explain his behaviour. Does that make sense? It proves he knows something._
> 
> _Anyway, let me know._  
>   
>  _HP_  
>   
>  _PS: Get rid of this when you're done._

I toss the letter on the table and say, " _Incendio_!" It goes up in flame.

Next to me, Zabini jumps and exclaims, "What the Hell do you think you're doing, Malfoy?"

"I'm roasting marshmallows. What does it look like?"

"...going mental," he says to Nott.

From the head table, McGonagall takes ten points for my pyromania. My housemates' reactions to this have little effect on me. I am paying attention to Potter across the Hall, who looks shocked at my treatment of his letter. I shrug and walk off to class.

Of course, I have not lost interest in Potter. I'm so interested it's pathetic, and I refuse to put myself in another situation where I feel compelled to profess my affection, Witch Weekly style, so he can throw it in my face. Just walking past the library agitates me. The way I must have looked holding his hand like a schoolgirl! The way I must have looked looming over him in the candlelight, on the verge of spewing sweet nothings! 

Still, my status as Hogwarts' resident hall-roamer is helping me keep tabs on him. I know ever since his birth certificate arrived, he's been frequenting the corridor off Dumbledore's office, trying to pick the man's brain. Potter's logic is that his Muggle caregivers could not possibly have a hold on his Ministry records, and the only other person who would qualify as a guardian is Albus Dumbledore.

This morning, Potions is a chore. Granger is out sick presumably, so I am forced to brew with Hannah Abbott, who is the Hufflepuff equivalent of Neville Longbottom, both in looks and competency. It takes her twenty minutes to set up her half of the experiment, time mostly spent looking over her shoulder at her normal partners. She's probably been mooching off their success up to this point.

Once our Common Cough Draught is boiling, she takes the liberty of spectacularly destroying it. The potion spills over and shoots flames.

"Abbott," Snape barks, and banishes the cauldron. "Look at the board. It reads _do not add a second bat's wing until the first has fully dissolved_!"

She blubbers, "But how are you supposed to know when it's gone, if you can hardly see into the—?"

"Figure—it—out. It baffles me I even allowed you into this class. Start again. And Mister Malfoy—" I am caught smirking at Abbott as she retrieves another cauldron. "Stay after class."

"Why? Is it about my essay?"

"You made some foolish mistakes I'd like to go over."

The students snicker.

Snape is not in the habit of calling me out, even with good reason. And good reasons do not include nitpicking over inexistent flaws in my well crafted thesis on the ethics of brewing with live creatures (I support it). So, I conclude as he monitors my movements a little too closely for the next hour, it must have to do with heavier matters.

When the bell rings, there is only one thing to do. I dash out in front of the other students, ignoring Snape's protest.

"You can't do this," Pansy says, falling into step. "He'll just give you detention next time he sees you."

"Then I won't go."

She scowls at me. She knows why I am avoiding him. The only thing that stops her from speaking is Nott grabbing her around the waist, saying, "Are we going to lunch, or what?"

I choose "or what." I've lost my appetite.

Next Potions is worse. I feel the heat of Snape's animosity. He is extra critical of my work, and it's no help that Abbott is still in Granger's place. I almost miss that Gryffindor twit. Every time Snape swoops past us, Abbott slips and breaks a beaker, scalds herself, or disrupts my concentration with a squeal.

"Don't let me spoil this one, Draco," she is currently saying. "I don't know what he'll do to me if I screw up again."

"If you'd shut up, maybe I could focus long enough to pull both our arses out of the fire," I say, drizzling the blood of a diricawl into the mixture.

We scrape out passing marks.

The bell rings. Before I'm finished packing my bag, Snape darts out from behind me. He stabs his wand into the table, catching the sleeve of my robe, and hisses, "You will stay."

The students clear out. Snape shuts the door with a motion of his hand.

"I've waited long enough for you to approach me," he says, so close I can smell the oil in his hair. "Now I must take it upon myself to do the work for you. Why have you been neglecting our private lessons?"

"I don't know."

"I have been too lenient. These shenanigans will not continue. Your father's payments are still coming in, meaning you should still be attending. Even if they weren't coming in, you've made too much progress to stop now."

"My father wouldn't want me to endanger myself."

"You would rather sit back and let the rest of the world do the fighting for you?”

"I cannot let my mother have died in vain."

"Stop making excuses. Be a man, and live up to something." He’s still holding my sleeve. His stained fingers flex around the wand. "Perhaps your mother and father had separate expectations for you. Perhaps you have separate expectations for yourself. No matter. You must take action. _Any action._ "

I am finding it difficult to meet his eyes. When I do, he looks strange to me. I realize Snape implied I had more than one option. Strange. He retreats and signals me to leave.

"Friday evening," he says. "Same time as last term. Do not disappoint me."

It is difficult deciding whether to show. Something is brewing in the dungeons, and I don't mean a potion. Everyone is on edge, flitting around the common room, running up to Ravenclaw, receiving late-night owls and looking high-strung as they read them in the corner, cliquing up, throwing up, acting out, and sneaking a lot more liquor than usual. Crabbe and Goyle look at me expectantly every time we cross paths. I look at them like they're morons. Even Pansy gestures to me one night, whispering, "I wish you'd talk to me. I wish you'd reconsider."

I don't ask her to elaborate. I shut myself into the Owlery and wallow.

Friday after supper, I have resigned to meet with Snape. I'm going to tell him to take his greasy arse and piss off. I cannot compromise my neutrality by taking lessons from a Death Eater.

I make my way into the entrance hall, which is decked with autumn fixtures, enough glittering, nutmeg-scented leaves to make you dizzy. I am about to turn to the dungeons when something catches my eye: Potter's swishy little bottom is moving up the main staircase. All right, it's not swishy exactly, but I know it well enough to imagine what it looks like under his school robes.

It's no use. Even with his back turned, Potter allures me. Snape can suck it, for now. But how to get Potter's attention? He's flanked by his two friends.

"Granger," I call out. I shoulder my satchel, and the three of them goggle at me as I ascend the staircase. "Didn't catch you in class all week."

"Erm, I was a little under the weather." Granger looks at her friends, as if to ask if she were imagining things. Apparently not. Weasley's hand is in his wand pocket. Potter is toying with the buttons on his robes, paying suspiciously little attention to the scene.

I say, "I suppose you caught that nasty bug that's been going around, the one that makes your hair extra nest-like."

Weasley steps forward. "Get lost, Malfoy. What's with you sneaking around us all the time, anyway? You're not very subtle."

"Who's sneaking? I come bearing gifts," I say, holding out a scroll. "My Potions notes."

"Don't take it, Hermione. It's probably got poison on it."

"Well done, Weasley. That's exactly why I'm handling it right now. Go on, Granger."

Cautiously, she takes it and inspects it. I peek at Potter. He appears unaffected.

At last Granger says, "Thank you. This is...kind of you.”

"Don't flatter yourself. I don't need my partner falling behind, causing me even more grief. I believe Abbott's destroyed three of my potions this week."

"He made you work with Hannah? That _is_ Snapely."

Weasley is turning pink in the face at the near-cordial banter. He says, "Yes, well, nice of you to not act like a rat for once," and steers everyone away.

As they leave, Weasley and Granger put their heads together, apparently trying to deduce my motives. Potter looks over his shoulder. I raise my eyebrows in the direction of our usual meeting place. He has the decency to look pleased.

I take the long route to Gryffindor and still end up waiting so long in the storage room I second-guess whether Potter was smart enough to take the hint. I also question why I'm meeting him in the first place. It would be easier to hide my feelings from a distance. At last, Potter tumbles through the door, winded but grinning.

"Sorry it took so long," he said. "Neville bumped into me on the way up. His papers spilled all over. Plus, I had to think of how to get away from Ron and Hermione."

"And what was your excuse?"

"I told them, you know, that I was hurting for a squirting..."

I roll my eyes through Potter's laughter. I refuse to smile at him. I refuse to enjoy his company.

"Come on, that was funny," he says.

"If you go for that sort baseness."

"All right," he says, catching his breath. Then he gets that glitter in his eye. He drops his bag, walks up to me, and runs his hands up my chest. "What do you go for, then?"

I am not accustomed to fighting my sexual urges. Truthfully, if any clean-looking, pretty, young thing lifted her skirt for me, I would not bat a disapproving eye. Potter is not wearing a skirt, but he can act pretty when the mood strikes him. He takes off his glasses, and his dark lashes seem to flutter without trying. Those lips part wetly. That pink tongue pokes out, touches my throat. My groin stirs. It takes every facet of determination I have not to move.

He stands on his toes, flush against me. His mouth touches my ear as he says brazenly, "Do you go for me?"

I do. I really do.

My eyes have closed. He palms the bulge in my trousers.

"Yes?" he pushes.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. I nod.

"Then why are our clothes still on?"

"I'm not in the mood,” I lie.

"You're not in the mood?" he says with amusement. "Your big, hard cock says otherwise. So nice and fat. I don't know if I could even fit that inside me."

I am a groaning mess. He _knows_ what ego-stroking does for me.

I cannot help recalling the last time we stood this close. That feels like an eternity ago. Every day since then, I've rubbed my fingers together, trying to remember the feel of Potter's fingers. I've touched my lips, pretending I'd had the courage to enact what I desperately wanted to.

Potter's hands are in my hair. His kneading motions are heavenly. I cannot help letting my head fall back.

He says, "Did you catch our game the other day?"

Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw 450 to 100.

"No.”

"Oh. Cause I thought I saw you in the stands."

"Were you looking for me?"

"Maybe. You've been rather distant."

I open my eyes and say flatly, "As opposed to showering you with flowers and chocolates?"

Potter pulls away. "I just meant to say...it's been different without you."

He looks at my erection. He swallows, clasps his hands, and shrugs. It’s almost submissive. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if my cock broke the seam in my pants. That memory pops into my head: my father advising me that women like it when you take control. And since Potter was legally a woman, now...

"Service me," I say low in my throat.

Potter laughs.

My eyes flash. "What's so funny?"

"You," he says, holding his stomach. "You and your big man act. Especially after what you did in the library."

Heat flares up inside me. I recognize the sensation as embarrassment, but that makes no difference to my impulses. I shove Potter onto the ground. His glasses fall off and he scuffs his hand.

He glares up at me, saying, "I was joking, Malfoy!"

"Well, I'm not joking."

I grab a fistful of curls, and yank Potter onto his knees.

"Undo them," I say, barely able to contain myself as Potter takes my cock out of my trousers; they fall to my feet. I place my free hand on his neck.

It is not a tender act like last time. It is an assault—an assault on whom, I am no longer sure, as Potter veritably attacks my cock, glaring, seemingly on the verge of shooting lightning bolts out of his scar. Part of me believes he will take a bite off it. Part of me wants to believe he is sucking me out of affection. In the end, neither. Lust and spite and bitterness are his only motives.

When it's all over, I pull up my trousers and turn away to button them. I lay my face on the cool stone wall, drained of emotion. Dominating Potter did not feel as good as it once would have.

We do not speak. It's not as if I have nothing to say, but it's an ineffable, forbidden something, and every moment I spend admiring him is sending me closer to my breaking point.

"Was there anything else?" he asks hotly.

There are a hundred things.

"No," I say.

He leaves without a word.

There is tightness in my chest similar to when Pansy broke up with me.

I spend the rest of the evening brooding by the lake. It's freezing cold, but solitary. I skip rocks past the giant squid. I nearly lose an eye when he mistakes it for an attack and launches several back.

Around ten I sneak into my dorm. Crabbe and Goyle snore loud enough to cover my footfalls. There is a note stuck to my bedpost.

>   
> _Malfoy,_
> 
> _Detention, next Friday, my office. If you do not show, I will simply make your and your classmates' lives miserable until you do._
> 
> _Snape_

I crush the letter in my fist and curse.

"I don't know what's with you," someone says. It's Nott, lying in bed. "But just so you know, Draco, I don't trust you for a second."

"I don't need you to," I say, and retire to another night of dreams.

***  


Spinner's End was a foul place. Rubbish piled up on the sides of the house, which drew families of flies and rats. One end of the roof was sunken in, emitting a foul odour. These were fuzzy observations. I was in no state to be critical. Snape led me inside. My broomstick lay forgotten in the overgrown grass.

Immediately, Snape strode over to a tall bookshelf. He pressed his ear to the side of it, and exclaimed, "Stay away from the door!"

He stabbed his wand at the bookshelf. There was a crack of magic and then from behind the wall a series of banging noises, as if something was falling down a staircase.

I stared, confused.

"My ward lives in the next room," Snape said dismissively.

Ward? Room? I didn't know there was more than one room to this shack. I let it go. I was faint. I was cold. I was still in my underwear.

Snape threw a set of black robes at me. I felt the greasy collar, and deduced they were his own. Under normal circumstances, I would find this appalling, but my senses were elsewhere. I slipped them on, feeling like a big, blond bat.

"Sit," he said.

I may have sat.

I may have been handed my wand. Yes, I had dropped it when Snape broke the news. _Your mother is dead._

"But how do you know?" I said, suddenly.

Snape was brewing in his makeshift kitchen laboratory. He looked over his shoulder.

"You'll have to be more specific."

"How do you know she's d—?"

I couldn't utter the word. It was hard enough to think it.

"When a person no longer has brain activity, they are dead. Unless they are undead," he adds. "Which your mother is not."

"No. How do _you_ know? You were here."

"I knew Carrow and Nott were sent to your home last night. Neither man is competent. So, I checked in on them. I wanted to be sure they completed their task without becoming...side-tracked."

I thought of that fat, hairy man's hand grasping my mother's thigh. Bile rose in my throat.

"Just as I suspected," Snape continued. "They mucked things up. Things went too far. Neither man knew how to retrieve you in a dignified manner."

I searched frantically around the room for I-don't-know-what. My mother, I suspect. This wasn't right, I thought. She was going to Apparate at any moment. She would appear. She would embrace me, and we would run away. Where was she?

"She's dead," I moaned. "My mum is dead. They killed my mother."

"Nonsense. They had no reason to kill her. She killed herself."

"What? No, she didn't! I saw them tie her up! She told me it would be okay! That she would meet me! But it wasn't okay because they didn't let her go. They killed her!"

"I saw her there, Draco," he said, walking towards me. "She was not tied up. She was lying on the floor with her wand to her throat. It may be difficult to understand, but some people are weak. Now, take this."

He handed me a beaker of deep green syrup. I held it close for warmth, but did not drink.

"That's not true," I insisted. "Why would she tell me to come here? Why would she want to lie?"

"She told you to come here?"

"Yes. She said I could trust you. But apparently not. You're as cold-hearted as any of them."

Snape stared at me for a long time. My neck prickled. My ears almost itched. I couldn't make out what was going on behind those beetle-black eyes, but I felt uneasily that he was trying to read my mind.

At last he said, "If your mother wanted you safe, it is not too late. If you still want protection, I know people who can provide it."

I reached my boiling point.

"No," I said savagely. I stood and the beaker shattered messily on the floor. "Your _people_ are who killed her. And you're no better."

"Draco, sit down and listen—"

"I won't trust you. Mum was wrong about them and she was wrong about you. I'll provide for myself."

I tripped over Snape's robes, but managed to throw open the door and launch myself out of the house. I grabbed my broom before he had time to react, and within moments I was twenty feet in the air with Snape's shouts ringing in my ears.

***  


Nearly a week has passed, and I haven't spoken to Potter. And if that isn't depressing enough, against all my good sense I am going to detention.

I enter Snape's office. I am met with an unexpected sight. There is Snape sitting at his desk, as cold and still as a statue. Albus Dumbledore is beside him. He perches on the corner of the desk, looking far too merry for liking.

I stare.

Dumbledore swishes his wand like a symphony conductor, and the wood chairs in front of Snape's desk begin to transform. They disarrange themselves, twisting, back flipping like acrobats across the floor, until they are situated in front of the fireplace in the form of cushy, blue recliners, a far cry from the interrogation devices normally found in Snape's office.

"Severus, won't you join us?" Dumbledore says, with that gleam in his eye that always makes me squirm. 

Snape snatches his desk chair, plunks it near the two new ones, and we all sit for an awkward moment. Well, except Dumbledore. I don't think he has an awkward bone in his body. 

"Professor Snape tells me you've been falling behind in your studies."

I furrow my brow. “But my marks have been improving. I get top marks on almost every assignment."

"Not your Potions studies," he corrects. "Your Dark Arts studies."

My stomach drops. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

Dumbledore peers at me over steepled fingers. "Surely it wasn't so long ago that you don’t remember. But then, it has been six months since your last lesson."

I turn to Snape, whose expression reveals nothing but boredom. "He knew…?"

"I knew from the beginning," Dumbledore says. "I know many things."

"That makes no sense. Why didn't you stop us? Why aren't you stopping the others—?"

I shut my mouth. I probably shouldn't have mentioned that last part. It does not faze the old man.

"I didn't stop you because it would be a shame to come between you and a valuable education. The same goes for your peers. And, as it happens, it wouldn't get me anywhere to out Professor Snape. I might find myself down one very good professor if people knew he was teaching less popular magic."

I notice Snape growing less bored. His sour demeanour is suddenly intense in the firelight.

"I don't think we're just here to talk about my Dark Arts lessons," I say.

"No," Dumbledore says. "But while we're on the subject, why don't you tell me why you stopped attending?"

My father comes to mind. Somehow I know Dumbledore has the uncanny ability to read into your soul, and though I want to answer him I know my best bet for being reunited with Dad would be to walk the fence and reveal nothing. I shake my head, eyes never leaving the dancing flames in the grate.

"Is it for the same reason you've disassociated from your House? Is it for the same reason you keep to yourself, keep to the corridors?"

I come to attention. I must look like a buffoon, eyes and mouth wide.

Dumbledore smiles. "Some people call me crazy for talking to portraits and tapestries all the time, but you'd think they would understand—portraits and tapestries talk back. Quite a lot." He leans forward and becomes serious. "Draco, I'd like to give you my word as a wizard that anything you say in my company will remain that way. That goes for Professor Snape, as well."

Snape is clearly affronted at being spoken for, but nods just the same.

"So, tell me," Dumbledore continues. "Why do it? Why abandon your life? For I've long suspected it is for the same reason that you ran away from Professor Snape on that terrible night last summer."

My realizations of late have been less than pleasant: realizing I would be isolated at Hogwarts from now on, realizing I could no longer confide in my old mentor, realizing my longtime enemy had a vagina and that I liked that vagina. That last one was a kicker. The realization I am having now is less like a dozen bricks on my head. This is a slow, rising, spreading warmth. This is a dawning.

I turn to Snape, and say, "You didn't mean Death Eaters at your house."

Snape says, "Not so much."

"Then why—why have you let me do this—why didn't you tell me sooner? You're—you're a _spy_?" I say, both revolted and overjoyed.

"Yes. And you're not," he says. "Though, for some reason, your Housemates are quite adamant you are, and pleased about it."

I forgot about that. I say crossly, "You're right. I'm not. I'm not on anyone's side." And I hunker down into the cushion with my arms folded.

"And once more, I ask you, why not?" Dumbledore says.

"Because I don't need to be! One side killed my mother for no reason at all, and the other side put my father in prison! The only thing getting involved will do is mess things up even more. I don't need to choose. I don't need your _protection_ ," I spit at Snape. "I'm doing fine protecting myself."

"Like you did this summer, yes," Dumbledore says gravely. "The wards Professor Snape put around that inn you stayed at likely had nothing to do with your safety."

I put my head in my hands, half to hide my fury, half so as not to dignify the old man with another surprised look.

"Draco, have some tea. It will help more than you know."

There is a tremor of magic and the sudden waft of sweet air. A saucer and cup are in my hand. I don't remember taking them.

"Why are you telling me this now?" I ask quietly. "You had months, and now term is nearly up."

"That is precisely the reason we are speaking with you. You are protected at Hogwarts. Every student is protected as long as he or she chooses to remain here. But the Christmas holidays will be here soon. I wasn't sure where you planned on spending them."

"You think I'm going to skip home and spend them with my family?"

Snape and Dumbledore share a secretive look.

"Perhaps you had some relative I was unaware of," Dumbledore says. "Perhaps you had a friend to share Christmas with."

"You seem to know everything else," I say into the teacup. I resent how delicious it is.

"Just as well, I thought it better to ask."

"Tell me what the point of this is. Great, now you know I don't want your protection. What's to stop me from running to my friends in Slytherin, and telling them everything you just said? What's to stop me from running to the Dark Lord himself? Blackmailing you, even?"

Dumbledore looks solemn behind his half-moon spectacles. "Because I know there is more good in you than not, Draco Malfoy. You are a young man who wants to prove himself, and not to a group of scoundrels who killed your mother."

My eyes burn. I have never cried about my mother's death, but in this moment I wish I could. "You know she didn't kill herself?"

"We both know. It was Professor Snape who found her body that night—staged to mimic suicide."

I grip the arms of my chair, leaning toward Snape. "Then why did you tell me...? When you knew...?"

Snape's jaw twitches, but otherwise that sallow face is blank.

"It had to be done," Dumbledore says. "And for that I am truly sorry. Professor Snape could say no more than Voldemort would have him say to you until we knew whether you were trustworthy."

I don't even react to the frivolous use of the Dark Lord's name. I am too engrossed in my mother's last moments. "I knew she wouldn't do it, though," I whisper. "I knew she couldn't leave me, not my mum."

"I'm sure she was a fine woman.” Dumbledore waits for me to gather myself. "However, there is another reason why you will not tell anyone what we have discussed tonight. The day Bellatrix Lestrange visited your home, you were meant to receive a task from Voldemort himself." This time I shudder. "An almost impossible, most dangerous task. Your mother was right to fear for your life. But It wasn’t until you ran that you should have been afraid of Lord Voldemort himself. For avoiding Lord Voldemort, Draco, is as good as siding against him. So, you see, you do need my protection. You have no other choice."

All this washes over me like ice water. I cannot move immediately. When I do, I merely stare into my tea.

"What if I still say no?" I ask.

Dumbledore adjusts his purple hat. By this, I take it he is unfazed. He says, "I cannot force myself upon you, nor would I want to. I only hope the best for such a bright young wizard. Oh!" He reaches out to the tea tray. "Maple biscuits!"

He rises, pocketing several brown, leaf-shaped biscuits. He is as far as the door when he pauses and adds, "There is time yet to think about my offer. My office is always open to you, Mister Malfoy."

I nod vaguely. Then I ask something that's been bothering me for a very long time.

"Professor? What was the task You-Know-Who wanted to give me?"

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore says, and smiles down at me. "He wanted you to murder me. How very ambitious of him!"

With a chuckle, he is gone. I sit in stunned silence.

Snape is already stalking around the room, going through papers and stacking books. As an afterthought, he flicks his wand and the blue chairs devolve into their original states. I leap out of mine just in time not to be thrown to the floor. The tea things disappear. The fire blows out.

Snape selects a familiar old book off one stack and holds it out to me.

"There is no time to waste. Be here Monday evening at seven o'clock. We will pick up your lessons where we left off."

I look at him, still angry he doesn't see fit to say a word to me, not an apology, a condolence, or shred of comfort.

"What makes you think I'm saying yes to any of this?" I ask.

"You would be a fool not to," he says, shaking the book in front of my nose. "You have nothing and no one."

I nearly stagger back. I have never felt such cold rage. The way Snape is looking at me—as if I were a stranger, as if I'd never seen him outside the classroom, as if I'd never idolized him or tugged on his robes as a child. And to think I had endeared this rotten fuck.

I lean in close to his face, and spit, "I still have my father! And _he_ is not on your side!”

I run out of the room and down the tunnels of the dungeon. First-years jump out of my way. I don't see anyone, anything but fury.

I burst into the Slytherin common room. Everyone is still acting strangely. Perhaps they're just unaccustomed to seeing me. As I step over a couple girls conversing wildly on a sheepskin rug, Pansy hurries up to me.

"Draco, I'm glad you're here! We were just about to—"

"Fuck off," I say, and blow past her.

I climb into bed, shoes still on, and shut the curtains tight. For a few minutes, I think Pansy will come after me.

She doesn't.

***  


That night I wake up suddenly. I'm sweating. I've got goose flesh. Something doesn't feel right. The dormitory is silent. Crabbe and Goyle should be snoring.

I feel for my wand on the nightstand. Not there. A pang of fear goes through me.

I channel that fear, hoping.

" _Lumos_ ," I whisper. A light ignites on the floor. Relieved, I drop out of bed and pick up the wand.

I look around the dormitory. The first thing I notice is I'm alone. The second is that every bed is made. It's as if they were untouched all night. There are trunks missing, too.

I'm still wearing my school robes from that day. I throw on a cloak and run out the room. Every door in the hall is open, every room abandoned.

Still, I expect something different in the common room: a practical joke for me, even a poorly staged Death Eater meeting—anything but this desolation. I search carefully. The fire is out, so I rely on my wand. No pet cats or toads. No homework lying about. Not one drunk seventh-year passed out in the corner.

I know first hand that when a boy tries to enter the girls' dormitories he is jinxed with a leg-lock curse and thrown down a trap door until someone comes to retrieve him. I merely look down the dark stairwell and yell, "Pansy? Bulstrode?"

I dig in my cloak for my pocket watch. It's two in the morning. I am no longer confused. I'm frightened.

I turn and prepare to bolt from the dungeons. Then, for the first time, I notice a bobbing head on the other side of a large, green sofa. I edge around it, wand ready.

I am met with a little kinky-haired boy in pyjamas. He's shaking, and trying unsuccessfully to hide in the cushions.

"What's happening?" I demand. "Where is everyone?"

He doesn't look at me. He begins to cry.

"You're no help," I say, grabbing him by the shirt collar. "Come on."

"No!" he says, but fights little as I steer him out of the common room. 

The dungeons are silent, except for our echoing steps. As we get closer to the entrance hall, a murmur descends upon us. It gets stronger until I can make out voices, some calm, some shrill, each engaged in its own distinct and significant conversation. We emerge and are met with a spectacular sight. The hall is filled with hundreds of witches and wizards. It's chaotic, claustrophobic, so cramped I can barely step out of the dungeons to get a better look.

There are Ravenclaws hanging over the second floor balcony, examining the scene through sleepy eyes. The Gryffindors are filtering down aggressively to join them. There are Hufflepuffs near the marble stairs, having rumbled up from the basement and looking disturbed; for once, I can empathize. For in the centre of all this, Slytherin House is waiting determinedly in front of Hogwarts' great front doors. Some are sitting on their trunks with bored expressions. Some are frantically looking around the room, as if expecting the other students to start battering them with rotten fruit. Others, like the older boy not ten feet from me, are becoming hostile. I recognize him as my Quidditch captain, Montague.

He picks up his trunk and slams it back on the floor. Two girls scream. Someone's kneazle squeaks.

"He'd better open those doors," Montague growls, looking up the marble stairs.

I assume he means Dumbledore. I look around. No sign of an old man in purple.

Some girl was chattering to her friend, “I bet you the Dark Lord himself will save us if they don’t let us go.”

“Don’t be stupid. This is a political statement, not a declaration of war.”

It is too hot, too confined. I move through the sea of Slytherins with the first-year in pyjamas anchored to me.

"Malfoy," he whimpers. I didn't know he knew my name. "Don't let him see me!"

"Who?" I ask absently. The Slytherins are nodding at me, patting me on the back, as if to say, _Good job, spy, good job_.

I look for someplace inconspicuous to stand. No time to think, though. The boy on my arm has started to scream.

"No, no!" he says. I spin around. Adrian Pucey, a seventh-year, is coming up behind us.

"There you are," Pucey says furiously. "I told you to pack your things! Now there's no time. Thanks, Malfoy," he adds, pulling the boy away.

"No!" he cries, tears streaming once more. Students look from all angles as the boy clutches my robes. "I won't go! Please, I don't want to!"

"Stop it, Andrew," Pucey says. "You don't have a choice! Now, let go!"

"STOP!"

A deep voice booms in the chamber.

The shouting, crying, and murmurs begin to subside. We look to the top of the staircase. There is Dumbledore, flanked by several professors, finally making an appearance. I note that Snape is not among them.

Dumbledore says directly to Pucey, "No student who wishes to remain at Hogwarts will leave Hogwarts."

"You can't keep him here," Pucey says loudly. "He's meant to come home. That's kidnapping!"

"If your parents wish to collect young Andrew, then they are free to travel to the school and do so. Are they outside now?"

Pucey responds only by staring daggers at the old man.

"Then," Dumbledore continues, holding out his hands, "I suggest you let him go."

Pucey throws the boy at me and trudges away. For a moment Andrew looks after his brother, and then he bolts up the marble steps and buries himself in Dumbledore's robes.

With his hand on Andrew's head, Dumbledore addresses the rest of the school.

"That goes for every student in this room today. None of you is unwelcome at Hogwarts. None of you is unsafe. I invite you to make the most of this safe-haven during such perilous time in our lives. Despite what some would compel you to believe," he says, especially to the Slytherins, "I will protect no student over the next."

Silence. Most Slytherins look angrier than before.

"We won't ask again!" someone cries from the throng. I recognize Nott's voice. "Open those doors. You have no right to keep us here!"

Dumbledore smiles sadly, and says, "As you wish."

The doors creak open.

For the first time, I notice it. Above the door frame of the great entranceway, someone has scrawled in Slytherin green _forever pure_. I am nauseated, knowing this to be my mother’s family motto. 

Slowly, quietly, students walk out. Most Slytherins don't even look back. One of them shifts to-and-fro, her cheeks turning pink, before she heaves up her trunk and returns to the dungeons. It was the girl who'd asked me to dance on Halloween. A few others, spurred by this girl’s version of courage, high-tail it to the dungeons after her; they are mostly younger-year students. Meanwhile, two Ravenclaws are surprising their Housemates and rushing down the stairs after the Slytherins, amid gasps and taunts. I don't know their names, but apparently they were too spineless to pack their trunks before leaving.

For a moment, I find myself walking with the Slytherins. I can't see any of my friends. Wait, there's Crabbe's head. Then I see Pansy. She's looking directly at me, upset. The crowd is washing her away.

 _Please_ , she mouths.

 _I'm sorry_ , I mouth back.

She is gone.

I'm left amongst a swarm of Hufflepuffs pushing for a closer look.

"Is there someone out there?" one whispers.

"Is it You-Know-Who?"

"Bet you it is him."

"If he were, we'd be dead by now, idiot."

"Yeah, I think it's just the school carriages."

"I think they're just...leaving."

I hear one voice I do not expect:

"Don't turn around," it whispers.

I jump, but I stay put. Out the corner of my eye, there is nothing in the direction of the voice but a fifth-year Hufflepuff with his mouth hanging open. It's Potter, I realize. Invisible.

"You're not going, are you?" 

He is half sure, half pleading. Discreetly, I shake my head _no_.

"I didn't think so," he says. "I'm glad."

Then I feel a most alarming sensation. Fabric is pushed between my fingers. I don't see it, but it's there. He's grabbing my hand through the invisibility cloak, enclosing our fingers the same way I did in the library. That was a month ago. I remember it, though. The warm feeling rushes back.

This time he doesn't let go.


	4. Chapter 4

There is a tap at the library window.

I nearly miss it. I've been trying to decipher the same set of runes for twenty minutes. Crabbe's fat head kept materializing between me and the textbook, along with Pansy's brown flowing hair as she swept out of Hogwarts.

I stretch out of my chair, reaching for the window to welcome the familiar snowy owl. I stop short. It's my eagle owl.

Not again.

My hand drops. The owl stares ominously through the glass. It holds out its foot, where a letter hangs.  


I look at the other library occupants—Pince, Granger, and several Ravenclaws. None are paying attention. I stuff my books into my satchel and walk out. When I arrive at the corridor, I pick up my heels and run.

_But what will avoiding it fix?_ I think, flying down the stairs and into the armour gallery. _I have made my choices. What will one letter change?_

I don’t want to find out. 

I climb into the window seat behind a tall bronze suit of armour ("Don't get fresh back there," it says.), and pull my legs to my chest.

There is a tap at the glass behind me. I turn slowly. My owl is there, looming in midair. This time, a white mouse is dangling from its beak.

"Diablo, you're going to stalk me until I take that letter, aren't you?"

He turns his head upside down, as if to question my intelligence.

I grit my teeth, press open the window, and pull the letter off his leg.

>   
> _Draco,_
> 
> _I am livid Pansy failed to inform you of our escape from Azkaban. We’ll forgive it as an ex-lover’s bregrudgment. On a similar note, we must thank Merlin the Ministry is too scared to release this information to the public. But we have little time to act._
> 
> _I realize you are frightened and confused, but you must quit this childishness before it is too late and leave Hogwarts at once, or Dumbledore may decide to keep you there by force. Our Lord is willing to give you one last chance to prove yourself._
> 
> _If this is about your mother, you must get past it. We may never know if she died at her own hands or the hands of another, but it was her decision to betray our Lord. She brought the consequences upon herself. Do not follow in her footsteps._
> 
> _You will come home during the Christmas holidays and you will not return._
> 
> _Father_
> 
> _PS: I am suspending your Dark Arts lessons with Professor Snape until you contact me. Burn this letter._  
> 

***  


Dumbledore is playing with a gadget on his desk, a bird that lays chocolate eggs when you tap her head. It's as if he's alone in the room.

Sitting in front of him feels eerily like the past: I'm quaking on my dad's sofa, wanting advice but waiting for him to read my mind. Dad won't budge from his reading until I scratch my head, shuffle my feet, and say, "Erm."

"Erm," I say.

Dumbledore looks up. He smiles, and it's very annoying.

"So, you're ready to talk protection?" he asks.

"Yes," I say flatly.

"I thought you would. Though, I did not expect you to visit me so soon. What have you got there?"

I look down. There is a sheet of parchment clenched in my fist. I forgot it was there. After receiving it, I wanted more than anything to throw it away, close my eyes, and sleep forever. It took everything I had to come here.

"It's nothing," I say.

Dumbledore returns to the bird. He taps it on the head, it lays an egg, and he eats it.

"All right," I sigh. I unwrinkle the parchment. Some ink has sweated onto my palm. I hold it out. "It's a letter—from—"

I thrust it at him, and look away.

When he is finished reading, Dumbledore looks up and says, "Have you contacted him?"

"No." I wipe my cheeks, convinced I'm crying. I'm not. I'm sweating. "He doesn't even care that she's dead," I burst out. "Doesn't even want to know what happened. But he _has_ to know!"

"Indeed. Professor Snape told me they were all informed of how the incident really played out."

"Then why would my father say that?"

"Quite possibly, he wanted to protect you from the truth.” He leans forward on his great desk and gives me back the parchment. "I would not read too far into your father's reaction, Draco. He cannot possibly be indifferent to his wife's death."

"Are you trying to convince me I should _go_ now?" I ask.

"Not at all. Not that I think I could convince you either way at this point. You have options set out in front of you, quite different from the ones I spoke of in Professor Snape's office. It seems Voldemort is benevolently inviting you back into the fold."

His eyes are sparkling. I think this is Dumbledore's version of sarcasm.

"You think my dad is lying to me, tricking me?"

"I do not believe your father would willingly lead you to your demise. Voldemort, on the other hand—"

I shiver in fear.

"—well, I would not risk it," he finishes.

I let my lip curl, almost without realizing it. I cannot understand Dumbledore any better than I can understand the intentions of the madman we are discussing. To me, they are the same character dressed in opposite costumes.

Nothing gets past Dumbledore. "Of course, there is one surefire way of gaining your father's Lord's trust. You could always complete your original task. I'm sure you could make an impressive entrance, carrying my head on my wand."

"Thank you for your counsel," I say irritably. I lean forward and tap the bird. A sweet plops out. I don't take it. "Did you know the Slytherins were leaving when you spoke to me that night?"

"I had a hunch something was about to take place. I wanted to speak to you before that occurred. Caught you in the nick of time."

" _Caught_ being the operative word.

"Pardon me?"

"With the other Slytherins, you opened the doors gave them a choice. With me, you continue to make it clear I have only one choice."

"Draco, I don't mean to coerce you. Your situation is different. I knew you were on the verge of going back out into a world that was an immense danger to you. The other Slytherins’ lives were not in immediate jeopardy. I believe yours still is. If you want to leave, the door is open to you."

If I had a sickle for every time my mother told me I was stubborn growing up, I would be rich all over again. I don't want to make this easy for Dumbledore. But, in reality, I am too scared to leave Hogwarts, though I miss my father very much. I think about him writing these betraying words, inviting me back into the fold that killed mum, the fold she died trying to keep me out of...

"Fine," I say hoarsely. "I'll stay for the holidays."

"I will help you make arrangements for the summer, too, if that is what you want."

"I'll think about it. Is that all?"

"Not quite," he says, petting his beard. His eyes are distant. "There is no telling how long this war will be stirring. Voldemort may be preparing his front as we speak or he may put it off for years, growing stronger. But, Draco, I can only protect you while you are my student."

"So, you're saying you're going to guard me, school me, and then throw me out on my arse to be killed?"

"Not at all. What I'm saying is—this is the reason Professor Snape has been so adamant about your Dark Arts training of late. You are his prized student, and I believe he considers you a friend. He wants to know you can protect yourself. It is the only way he can keep you safe."

The mention of Snape leaves a sour taste in my mouth. "So?"

"Mister Malfoy, you are more knowledgeable in the Dark Arts than any student here. Why, you've been doing wandless magic for the past two minutes."

I look at Dumbledore strangely. He looks at the mechanical bird. It is bobbing its head and violently shitting chocolate.

I gasp, and abruptly the bird stops.

Dumbledore looks pointedly at me and says, "I think you would be a valuable asset in this war."

I react so fast I nearly bite my tongue. "Just because I'm going to stay at Hogwarts does not mean I'm joining your little club!"

I've heard of it. I don't know it by name, but I've heard rumours of a coalition headed by Dumbledore, a conspiracy against Voldemort.

"I can't fight against my own father," I say. "God, you're no better than He is. I knew there was a catch."

"There is no catch, Draco. You are free to stay in my care until you graduate from Hogwarts. After that, if you wish to remain under my protection, you will need to make yourself useful."

I glower at the wasted chocolate on the desk. Experimentally, I lift my hand. The sweets follow, floating into the air. My finger twitches, and the bird looks up and opens its mouth. My hand drops, and the sweets spill all over the desk. Some make it into the bird's mouth; others bounce onto the floor.

Dumbledore says, "With instruction, you will hone that craft and others. You will be safe, and not just at my mercy. You will be able to take care of yourself. Professor Snape is willing to give you another chance, even without your father's money."

"This would mean declaring sides," I whisper.

"Draco. In a way, you already have."

***  


Potions is awkward. Not only is it held in the dungeons, the new deserted land everyone would prefer to avoid, but my class is down by nearly half its students. Those who remain sit in the front row with me. I take it as some sort of half-arsed display of support.

Boot, Abbott, and I are silent as Granger shuffles in with her pile of makeup work.

"Good to be back," she says breathlessly. No one responds. I'm pleased when she harrumphs into her chair and begins arranging her quills in silence.

The four of us are staring at the blackboard when Abbott bursts into tears. Snape hasn't even arrived yet, I think, looking at her bewilderedly.

"Hannah, what's wrong?" Granger asks.

"Su Li was one of the Ravenclaws that left. I had no idea. She was always so nice to me. She always helped me with my potions."

"I didn't know either," Boot says. "We dated a little while in fourth year. When you think you know someone..."

I feel their eyes on me as I flip through my textbook.

Granger hands Abbott a handkerchief. "Well, sometimes people surprise you. Thanks for the notes, by the way, Malfoy." She drops them under my nose just as Snape glides into the room.

"One student from each House remains," he says, beginning to scrawl the day’s assignment on the board. He whirls around to face us. "Let us play a game. The student with the highest marks by the end of the year will receive a prize for their House."

We begin to squirm. Granger leans forward, perhaps hoping that Snape is in a good mood, having virtually no students to instruct or Head.

"That student, as a reward," Snape continues, "will _not_ have points taken away for incompetence! I’m appalled at how poorly you’ve all done this term. Granger—" He whirls around and looks down his hooked nose. "Looks like you forfeit the game already. You'll be lucky to pass this year, with as many classes as you missed."

Granger's lips thin. She thrusts her parchments at Snape. "I did all the potions in my spare time. And I wrote makeup essays, all of them. I got the notes from—"

"Makeup work is subject to only 50% of the original score," he says, refusing to look at her directly.

"That's why I wrote double."

Snape heaves a sigh. He snatches her homework and returns to his desk. "Begin chapter five," he barks, and promptly ignores us all.

Chapter five is a monotonous historical account of the various uses of goblin's blood. We aren't going to use goblin blood, for ethical reasons, so I am annoyed we have to study it.

"Malfoy," Granger hisses as we read.

"I'm right next to you," I say. "No need to spit on me. What is it?"

"I wasn't really sick. I was sleeping in."

"Great of you to give me the top Potions spot for a bit of shut-eye. Better luck next year."

"I was sleeping because I was so tired after trailing _you_ every night."

I stop reading to look at her. She pretends to study, but her head is tilted toward me, as if waiting for a response. She's not the only one. Terry Boot is leaning sideways, trying to get an earful of our conversation.

I flick my finger. His inkwell jumps and splatters everywhere.

"Bollocks!" Boot shouts. He stands up, black dripping off his robes.

"Boot," Snape says from his desk. "That looks remarkably unlike studying."

"Malfoy spelled my ink to tip over, sir!"

"He's not even holding his wand," Abbott says, picking up her feet to avoid the ink on the floor.

"Yeah, I'm not even holding my wand," I taunt. "Are you feeling all right?"

I watch Boot storm over to the sink to wash up. Then I find Snape looking at me. His eyebrow lifts and his cheek twitches. It's about the closest thing to a smile he can manage, I guess. I turn back to my book, praying Granger has decided to shut up.

"As I was saying," she says.

"As you were saying," I interject, turning angrily to the next page, "you're going to shut your mouth and leave me alone."

"You're not fooling anyone, Malfoy. The other night, I was studying late in the library. When I went back to Gryffindor tower, I saw you coming out of the storage room, looking smug. I was concerned, so I hid from you. Then, a moment later, Harry came out."

"You’re delusional."

"And that's not the only time it happened. The other day, when you gave me those notes, you were acting curious. Then, Harry made an excuse to leave Ron and me. And he cannot lie to me, Malfoy. So, I followed him up to the tower again, and not half an hour later you and Harry left the room. You're telling me I imagined that twice?"

She is entirely too satisfied with herself. I scrape back my chair, and spend the rest of class studying in the second row.

When the bell rings, I'm not avoiding Snape for once. It's Granger pursuing me. I'm halfway to my dorms before she catches up and blocks my path.

"I’m tired of sneaking after you. I know you're blackmailing Harry.”

I smirk. "What makes you think that?"

"Because either you _knew_ Harry was going to be in that room—and you hid to spy on him—or you met him there. And I can't think of any reason other than blackmail Harry would meet you willingly. On top of it, with all the high jinks he was pulling off at the beginning of the year, there has to be something going on! And, like Ron said, you're not very subtle about it."

"You're right," I say, my eyes narrowing. I start towards her, and she looks startled. She backs up. "I have been blackmailing him. For the whole term, in fact. I made him read that poem to Snape. I even made him wear those pink robes to breakfast. All for my own amusement."

"How? Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I have her against a dungeon wall now. She is both rapt and horrified, waiting for the secret. I say, "He's madly in love with you, and doesn't want you to know."

She lets out a growl and heaves her loaded book bag at me. I narrowly miss the bludgeoning, and start down the corridor again, laughing.

She calls after me, "Fine, Malfoy! Keep it to yourself. It's about to come to an end, anyway."

I stop and turn.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask slowly.

"Just that Harry was looking awfully hard at you at breakfast this morning. And then McGonagall came around, saying Professor Dumbledore was ready to speak with him. Looks like he's going to rat you out. Maybe in the future you'll learn not to be so cruel."

I stare as she flounces away. She's wrong, for once. There's only one thing Potter wants to speak with Dumbledore about.

After that there is little time to waste. I drop off my satchel in the common room, sure to avoid clingy little Andrew Pucey, and make my way up to the main castle.

I skid into the Great Hall. No Potter. I check the library, only to realize he'd have no use being there if Dumbledore spoke to him about what I think he did. Next, I make the trek up to Gryffindor. I'm sweating by the time I enter the storage room. It's bright, unfamiliar at this noon hour. I find it is unfamiliarly void of Potter, as well. Perhaps I should send him a letter: No, takes too long!

I'm staring out the window, hatching other plans, when I see him. He's alone at the Quidditch pitch. I know that effortless glide like the back of my hand.

By the time I reach the pitch he has landed, and is staring out at the forest as if he were lost.

"Potter," I pant. My breath is cold and white in front of me

"Hi," he says. There is a note of melancholy. He doesn't look up.

"I saw you from the tower. Not that I was searching for you, or anything."

He looks up slowly. I receive one of those half-smiles, those twinkling little green things.

"Did you have a practice scheduled?" he asks. "I thought the pitch was free."

"Who would I practice with?"

"Right. Sorry."

It is disconcerting to see him this way. After the other night, when he held my hand, I half expected him to greet me with excitement. We walk toward the school broom shed, though I don't see why. He has his Firebolt. I suppose he just wants to lean against the wall and sulk.

I'm bollocks at cheering people up, especially people who have been my enemy for the past five years. I try, "Looks like you're going to get the Quidditch Cup, after all. Though, I may still force you to forfeit, just for fun."

It works. Potter snorts, and says, "Somehow, I doubt that."

We slide onto the ground, all alone on the frosty field. The wool of our cloaks shields us from dampness. It's quiet, except for the sound Potter makes as he scrapes dirt off his broom handle.

At last, I ask, "I take it the news from Dumbledore was no good?"

"How do you know I spoke to Dumbledore?”

"Your nosy, big-mouthed friend."

"Oh. Is Hermione still following you around, then?"

"You knew?" I ask, indignantly.

"I thought it would be safer not to let on. That would make me look even more paranoid. She's been on me about this for...I don't know how long."

"Well, next time, let me know. Or better yet, from now on we'll meet somewhere else."

Potter chews the tassels on his scarf, hesitant. I realize I've been staring at him this whole time, and he's barely looked back once. This drives me crazy, makes me aware of my every movement. My hand is resting in the grass, so close to his.

"I didn't think you were interested anymore," he says. "I haven't seen you all weekend."

"Don't get me wrong, Potter. Your arse is nice, but I've been through a load of bullshit these past few days."

"But you don't want to stop seeing each other?"

He looks up at me, pale. I feel like this is about more than him and me.

My eyes linger on his lips. They are dark pink against his skin. It's difficult to meet his eyes. When I do, they are almost pleading. It feels like I'm being pulled into him, like every fear I have of humiliation will be nothing compared to the regret I'll feel if I don't let myself fall in.

"No, I don't want to stop," I say, hardly aware of it. "I mean, I quite like it. That is to say, not just the shagging. I quite like...you."

Potter doesn't seem shocked, scandalized, or amused. He seems to relax. He gives the tiniest smile, and falls against me. Our shoulders press together, and all at once I feel a great wash of relief: I finally told him, and he's pleased about it. Well, then.

"I guess I already knew," he says. He runs his finger along my wrist. "Just wanted to hear you say it. I'm so tired of...doing everything myself, you know? I'm tired of all this responsibility."

"Elaborate," I say, and at the same time I don't want him to. I came down to hear this story, but now all I want is to revel in his touch.

"I don't know if I should be telling you this. Dumbledore...he keeps adding fuel to the fire. Let's just say he knows more about my private parts than I'd truly prefer."

"Oh, God. So, he told you, then? About your records? Was it a curse, after all?"

"Not a curse. Not really."

Against his better judgment, it seems, Potter begins a monologue.

At breakfast, Potter was staring at me, just as Granger said. I sat alone, glowering at a plate of bacon. Potter wanted to invite me to his table, but thought better of it. It wasn’t time yet. 

But it was time for something else. He looked to the Head table, at Dumbledore, and decided enough was enough. He stood, meaning to confront the elusive old wizard, even if it meant spilling his guts in the Great Hall. Dumbledore sensed this. Immediately, he whispered something to Professor McGonagall, pushed his chair back, and rushed out of the Hall.

Potter had no time to gawk, for McGonagall was striding down Gryffindor's table.

"Potter, the Headmaster will see you now," she said.

Weasley stared with his mouth full of cornflakes. Granger narrowed her eyes and looked at the Slytherin table.

Potter threw his bag over his shoulder and fled to Dumbledore’s office. The statue moved aside, no password needed. He found Dumbledore leaning over his Pensieve with his wand at his temple.

"Harry," he said, after a minute. "So glad we could finally get together."

"Yeah. I've been trying to _get together_ for a while now."

"I apologize for the delay. There were other pressing matters. Were you present at Friday night's event?"

"I was."

"I did not see you. But, no, I suppose that doesn't mean you weren't there. What did you think of it all?"

"The Slytherins are no good. I pretty much saw it coming."

"Did you, now?" he said lightly. He closed the cabinet holding the Pensieve, and gestured for Potter to sit with him. "I suppose I did, too, though it had mostly to do with your Slytherin peers' indiscretions, rather than any instinctive knowledge."

"But, Professor. It was obvious who was on Voldemort's side."

"Was it? You knew that Su Li and Marietta Edgecombe from Ravenclaw would leave? You knew that Draco Malfoy would stay?"

"Well...no."

"We are both learning lately that things are never quite as they seem. Which brings us to why you are here, I presume."

"Yes," Potter said excitedly. "I want to know why I'm—! Why does my certificate say—? Why do I have—?"

There were so many questions he couldn't organize them, and all were confusing and horribly embarrassing. He stopped, and stared at Dumbledore with his mouth open.

"What if we started from the beginning?" Dumbledore suggested.

And the fact that there was a beginning scared Potter to his bones. That meant there was a story behind this, a very secret story, another wrench thrown into his complicated machine of a life.

("What's a wrench?" I ask Potter, mid-story. He tells me to shush.)

"Many years ago," Dumbledore said, "before I left you with your aunt and uncle, I had temporary custody of you. I did place a hold on your records at that time, just as I'm sure you suspected."

"Yes, but there must have been a mistake. They let me have a copy of one record." Potter rummaged in his satchel for the birth certificate. "And it makes no sense to me what it says—"

"I know what it says. Birth certificates are available for public viewing for school and employment purposes, etcetera. If I had any authority over it, I would have put it on hold, as well. It would have saved me a lot of grief over the years. I'm actually shocked it took you this long to investigate things, Mister Potter. Lucky for my nerves, you waited until you were nearly an adult to look into your past."

"I'm not following, sir. It says I'm a girl on this. Why is that? I'm clearly a boy."

"Really," Dumbledore said, and looked over his glasses.

Potter stuffed the certificate in his pocket, blushing furiously. "Fine. If you know about my... _problem_ , then why have I grown up to look like a boy everywhere else?"

"That brings me back to my story," he said, and stared at Potter for a long moment. "At the end of last term I told you about Sybill Trelawney's prophecy. You remember, yes? Many years ago she spoke of a wizard child, who would be born on the 31st of July. When that day came, there was only one wizard born to powerful parents, only one who fit the parameters: Neville Longbottom."

"So, July 31st isn't my real birthday? But the certificate says—"

"I know what it says. Yes, you were born that day—except you were not born a _wizard_. Lily and James gave birth to a witch."

"They died thinking they had a daughter?"

"Not really. It is more complex than that," Dumbledore said, regretfully. "The fact is, Harry, you were meant to be a boy. While you were still in the womb, the mediwizards told your parents to expect a boy. But then we changed things."

Potter hoped his ears were deceiving him. "You _changed_ things? _You_?"

"Before you were born, I performed a spell on you that changed your genitalia to resemble a female's."

"You're off your rocker!"

"Harry, really," he said, though he did not seem offended.

"Why would you want to do that?" Potter exclaimed. "Do you know what I've been through? Do you know how I grew up, thinking I really was the freak my uncle told me I was?"

"We had good reasons, your parents and I."

"Give me _one_."

"I can give you a very good one," Dumbledore said, appearing to grow calmer the more upset Potter became. "We knew you were the wizard the prophecy spoke of. We knew the child Alice Longbottom was carrying was displaying almost no magic, while you were sending stars and bubbles all throughout your mother's belly. We also knew that Voldemort would be looking for you, a young wizard, due to be born on July 31st. We needed a decoy—a witch. In truth, I wanted to do the same for Mr. Longbottom’s safety, but his parents wouldn’t have it.”

"Lucky for him,” Harry said bitterly. “But why would they name me Harry, if they wanted people to think I was a girl?"

"No one did think you were a girl. We only needed _Voldemort_ to think so when he came to collect you. And we knew he would be coming right away. Your birth was a secret at first. No one knew anything about James and Lily's child except its date of birth. When Voldemort found you, as we knew he would, we hoped he would find a female child, fall for our trick, and write off the prophecy as a sham. Our plan, obviously, did not work out."

Dumbledore paused, as if to mourn that terrible Halloween in 1981.

"So, you ask, why did they give you a boy's name? Well, since we knew you would grow up to resemble a boy, despite your genitalia—as that is the nature of the spell—your parents thought it would be best for your future."

Potter absorbed this, scowling, trying to rationalize his parent's actions. "So, you're saying, they knew the spell was permanent? And they went through with it, anyway..."

"On the contrary. The spell is not permanent at all," he said, and Potter's head snapped up. "You've read about transsexual witches and wizards, have you not?"

"I may have heard something about them."

"Mister Potter," he said amusedly. "People sometimes call me crazy for talking to portraits and tapestries all the time, but I'd think they would understand by now—portraits and tapestries talk back. Your reading has become quite extensive over these past weeks."

Potter sunk into his chair. "Well, I know that transsexuals are the ones who get an operation to become the opposite sex."

"That's one simple way to put it. But what is important to our discussion is that in the wizarding world there are ways for one to see what it's like to live as the opposite sex before deciding to make the switch fully."

"Couldn't you just use Polyjuice Potion?"

"I suppose you could, but it would be a short term solution and a difficult one, at that. More importantly, with what I am speaking of—a charm, in this case—one is actually changing his or her sex only, and not his entire person. Of course, it has its drawbacks. It does not change your facial features, most of your body structure, or even your voice, usually—just your sexual organs."

"Then what's the point?"

"The point is it's a temporary tool used to aid people in making a very difficult, permanent life decision. The spell works as a compromise. The witch or wizard can experience what it is like to live with the opposite genitals for any stretch of time with the guarantee that if they do not enjoy their experience, they can revert to their previous sex. The stretch of time is determined by the wizard casting the spell, in most cases the mediwizard in charge of the entire sex-change."

"So, if the spell is temporary why didn't you change me back to a boy afterward?" Potter said, clenching the crumpled birth certificate in his pocket. "Why have you made me live like this all these years?"

"It was a difficult decision to make, Harry. When you were a baby, I had no idea whether the effects of the spell would be stronger for you—would there be adverse side effects? And clearly there have been. It affected your testosterone, your growth, and your changes at puberty. Knowing this might have happened, I wanted to give you the option of choosing which sex you were most comfortable with, when the job was done.” Dumbledore paused, and leaned forward. “Harry, have you suffered?"

"No," he said, taken aback. "Not suffered. Just...it would be easier to be completely one sex or the other. Sometimes it's like my mind doesn't know what's going on—I feel like a boy one second and like a girl the next. But I have to keep _acting_ like I'm all boy because that's what people expect, right?"

"I had read that such complications can occur. I had hoped it would not happen to you. But that is why I waited until you were an adult. Now you are old enough to make an informed decision."

"You sure hope a lot of things," Potter said with a soft sort of disdain. "You do a lot of things. You did this to me."

With that, he put his head into his hand, and he could feel the remorse coming from Dumbledore in heavy streams. He felt like a science experiment gone horribly wrong.  
.  
"I am truly sorry, Harry. If there had been another way, another tactic..."

"You said the other night you would protect all students equally. Except for me, right? It's always me in the line of danger, me making sacrifices!"

"All of us made sacrifices in those days. All of us did things we never wanted to in order to protect the world we lived in. I did. Your parents did. But you are right. I did meddle with your life. The difference with your sacrifice was you had no choice."

Dumbledore closed his eyes and sighed, as if letting go of a terrible burden. Then he said, "But now you do have a choice. As I said, the spell caster chooses the time constraints. Your spell will start to wear off when you become a legal adult."

"So you're saying this summer I'll start to turn into a full-fledged boy?”

"As far as genitals go, yes. I am still unsure whether having the spell cast on you as an infant will have a permanent effect on your body. You may remain smaller than average, low in testosterone. Or you may have a growth spurt, a second puberty of sorts, with all the usual male changes."

At this point, Potter felt excited, frightened, and sick all at once.

"I had thought this news would please you," Dumbledore said, cocking his head. "Your gender confusion may certainly begin to clear up..."

Potter imagined what it would be like: Finally growing facial hair, finally being as tall as the other boys, finally being _certain_ of his manhood. Something not so nice occurred to him.

"Professor," he asked timidly. "Say, right now, as a sort of female, I'm attracted to...boys. If I turn into a boy when I'm seventeen, would I then _stop_ liking...erm, boys?"

If Dumbledore knew the specifics of that question, he chose not to reveal it. He merely adjusted his half-moon spectacles, his eyes twinkling. "That is debatable. Some say that sexual preference has little to do with gender, and so this spell has no effect on your orientation. Ultimately, the only way to know is to make the leap to male."

"Right," Potter said, and looked at his shoes. "Erm, why is there chocolate all over your floor?"

***  


By the time Potter finishes talking, I am stretched out on my cloak with my head on his thigh. I let the information sink in, a difficult task while he is trailing circles on my neck with his fingers, making me tingly. The class bell is chiming in the distance, but it doesn't affect either of us.

"You were right, Potter. You shouldn't have told me all that."

"I know,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It must be so hard on _you_. Is that someone coming?" He removes his hand.

I sit up and look resentfully toward the castle. 

"No, they're going to the greenhouses. So, that prophecy Dumbledore talked about," I say, picking at the hem of Potter's sleeve, "was it the same one my dad went to Azkaban over?"

"Yes."

"What was it about?"

"I've said too much as it is."

"Potter, you must know there's a reason I'm staying. I'm not going to tattle to my friends, or anything."

"Then you can talk about it to Dumbledore yourself. And you can touch me, you know."

"I know I can touch you," I snap. I let go of his sleeve.

Potter looks out from under his lashes, smiling. Can he tell how his gaze affects me? Slowly, he holds out his hand. I blink at it. It's slight and hairless compared to mine. I reach out, hesitant, and then I grasp it within my own.

After a few moments of shy smiling, we decide to head to class. I'm disappointed we cannot hold hands on the long walk to the castle.

"Well," I say. "I wouldn't be surprised if you decided to go full-on girl and flee the country."

"Why would I do that?"

"Why, you could disappear from all this prophecy shit and no one would know any better. Dumbledore didn't mention that option, did he? Because that's not what he wants..."

"I guess that's what you might do, but it's not in the cards for me. I started this with Voldemort, so I'm going to finish it. Oy, look.”

There is an abandoned Quaffle on the ground. He kicks it toward the pitch.

I watch it fly a surprising distance, and say, "Why have you got to be so noble?"

"It's not being noble. It's doing what's right."

"No, it’s doing what's expected of you, what you've been manipulated to expect of yourself. You said it yourself: Dumbledore did this."

"But he had good intentions."

"You're missing the whole point."

We arrive at the entrance hall. Filch is halfway through putting up giggling fairy lights. One fairy sees me and blushes. We push through the rows of unplaced Christmas trees.

I say quietly, "My mother, she didn't commit suicide. Death Eaters wanted her to turn me over to them, but she wouldn't. So they killed her. But she wasn't even a Death Eater. That was my father's business, and he went and dragged her down in it. And now he doesn't even care. He only cares about winning. That's what Dumbledore is doing to you."

I am not emotional. I feel a duty to let Potter know what he's tangled in. When I imagine him in Dumbledore's office, in that diminishing chair, in front of that imposing desk, with that man who does everything to feign omnipotence, I see myself. I hate all of it.

"When I think about this," Potter says, "I don't think about who's trying to get something from me. I think about my mum, and what she did for me. I owe it to her legacy to at least try. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard for you to stay, if you thought of things that way."

"What makes you think it's hard for me?"

"You obviously don't like Dumbledore very much. And I see you at meals. You're alone and you look...angry."

He stands there with nothing but sincerity and greenness in his eyes. Suddenly, I realize I don't even remember what colour mum's eyes were.

I put my hands in my pockets and say, "It's complicated. And I've got loads of thinking to do. See you later."

I'm halfway down the dungeon stairs when he calls out, "Where are you going? I thought you had Arithmancy this hour."

"Fetching my bag."

"Oh. Will I see you tonight?"

"I should hope so," I say, feeling funny. "We'll have to work out where. I'll owl you at dinner."

He nods, and I start away again. Then—

"Malfoy, hold on."

Potter treads down the stairwell to meet me in the darkness, stopping one step above so we're nose-to-nose. He fidgets, and then he kisses me. I never thought it would be so sweet and simple. We stop, noses still touching.

"We're out in the open," I say.

"Everyone's in class," he whispers. "So shush."

We kiss again, slower. My arms are around his middle. I have no idea how they got there. I feel his breasts against my chest, his bottom under his robes. With my eyes closed it's almost like kissing a girl. When I pull back and gaze at that boyish face I am startled—but I'm excited and awed at the same time.

"On second thought, maybe I can hang around," I say.

Sticking Potter behind a suit of armour and making love to his mouth all afternoon sounds much more promising.

"I'd like to stay, but I'm far enough behind in class as it is," he says, backing up. "Have fun thinking."

I touch my lips all the way down the corridor, feeling silly and sparkly, like one of those fairies in the entrance hall. And I'm so exhilarated, I don't care how stupid that sounds.

On the way to my dorm, I hear a ruckus from the Potions classroom. I turn to see the door slam open. Snape exits with a small Hufflepuff breaking out in pustules on his mouth and throat.

"This should teach you," Snape growls, "just because something is red and sweet does not mean you should ingest it." 

He hauls the boy halfway down the corridor and pushes him toward the infirmary. Then Snape catches sight of me. Being pale and blond, I sort of stand out in the dungeons.

I give a short nod.

Snape narrows his eyes in suspicion, but then seems to accept. He nods back. He turns on his heel, and his robes billow menacingly as he leaves.

***  


The snow is glittering, singing out Christmastime. Magic hums in the breeze, etching patterns in the frosty windows of Hogwarts.

Inside, there is warmth, a spice in the air that is thick with merriment. Students are singing by fireside, holding mugs, feasting, and sending cards. The Christmas trees in the Hall are swaying, reciting carols, and sometimes telling jokes (the naughtier ones are really Peeves). The castle is returning to its former peace, a chilly, jolly, generous sort of peace.

I am aware of none of this. My peace is in the dungeons with Harry Potter.

It was my idea to meet in my dorms. With only a few other students in my House, it seemed ideal. Most students stay in their rooms and little Andrew went home for the holidays. I doubt I will see him again.

Outside it's snowing, but down here I'm burning up after spending the night with another person in my bed for the first time. We're naked and have the covers kicked off. I am propped on my elbow, admiring Potter's hips and legs.

"Have you been thinking about the decision you'll have to make on your birthday?" I ask.

"Don't want to. It's too overwhelming."

It overwhelms me, too. It makes me ill to think that in a few months Potter's body may transform. He may stretch out, build muscle, grow bigger than me, perhaps; he may sprout hair in unseemly places, and start to shave his face. He may lose his breasts, I think, cupping one. I trail my hand down his smooth, clean torso, and thread my fingers into his pubic hair, cupping the pliant flesh. It's hard to imagine a penis here.

I don't know how I will handle it. I don't know if I will bother trying.

"Don't worry about it," Potter says. "It's a long time from now. There's time to think."

"About what? You're not actually considering the whole sex-change..."

"Well, no. I don't want to be a _girl_. But I don't know if I want—" He looks at my penis.

"I don't see how you have any other choice."

"I know. I mean, I don't know. I actually thought about asking Dumbledore to cast the spell again, so I could stay the same." He laughs nervously. "Is that strange?"

"Don’t do it for me.”

I think it’s the first altruistic thing I’ve ever said.

Potter stares at the bed canopy for a long while. He finally says, "There's still time to think."

I kiss him. I like to kiss him. He says I do it too much, but I never really cared what Potter thought, anyway. We're mouth to mouth so long that he can't breathe. He pushes me away gently.

"Don't your friends think it's strange you're in the dungeons so often?" I ask.

"Well, Hermione's gone home for the holidays and Ron's off with Lavender somewhere. I think we're safe for now."

"Just wait until Granger gets back and starts stalking me again."

"She's not going to bother us anymore," Potter says. I look at him questioningly. "I told her you weren't blackmailing me. You were working as a spy, informing me of all the Slytherins’ plans."

"You're joking."

"It explains why you're still here. And why you don't hang around Gryffindor tower anymore. No Slytherins, so there's nothing to tell me."

"I don't hang around the tower because we have the dungeons to ourselves."

"She doesn't know that," he says smugly, and puts his chin on my chest. He strokes the few dark blond hairs there.

"Look out, world," I say. "I'm a double agent, now."

"The worst one who ever lived."

I swat him off me, and begin rummaging on the floor for my robes. I put them on.

"Do you really have to go see Snape?" Potter asks, trying very hard to look sexy. His bottom is poking out more than normal.

"If I want Dumbledore to let me into your little club, I do."

"I've never thought of the Order as a _club_ , exactly, but—" He gets on his knees and crawls across the bed. His small breasts jiggle. "If you stay a little longer, I'll let you join mine."

I look at my pocket watch. Fifteen minutes until my lesson. Potter sets the watch on the nightstand, and his hands slide up my neck and into my hair. He kisses me, warm and wet.

"Yes, but if I upset Snape again," I say into his mouth, "he'll hex me off the planet. And then you'll be without my glorious manhood forever."

"Maybe he won't hex you this time. And maybe _I'll_ hex you if you go..."

Potter pulls me on the bed. His skin is smooth under my clothed body, almost slippery. Kissing him sends energy through me still, jolting my heart, making my head spin, my cock stand on end.

Hazy, I say, "Well, since my trousers...aren't on yet..."

I tug up my robes and throw them somewhere. Now I can feel the heat on his pussy, his pink thighs. I lay between them, and I'm caught in a wealth of sensation. His thighs are sticky. His pubic hair tickles my cock, making it jump. His legs pull me closer, urgent. I balance on one arm, feeling for my cockhead—there it is. I poke blindly at his heat for a moment, and then he pulls away. I am alarmed.

I realize he's flipping over, onto his knees, presenting me with something else soft and moist. It's his arsehole, surrounded by sparse pubic hair. I thumb it for a second. He says, "Not on your life," and holds open his pussy.

There's no time to waste. I push into him.

"Draco," he breathes.

He is holding a condom. I knock it out of his hand. He protests for second, but does not move as I sink in.

Without the condom I feel sensitive, slick, focused on his every reaction. His flesh and muscle take me by the foreskin, swallowing me. I lean over. My head rests on his. I rock back and forth without thrusting. It's like I'm willing my dick to become harder, fuller, to invade him utterly. The thought that Potter is _open_ under me sends chills through me.

"You're fucking pulsing, Draco. Oh!"

"I’m going to come."

Potter makes no sound. My arms encircle his waist, slipping with sweat. He puts his hand on mine, and begins to fuck himself on my cock.

"Harry, I'm going to come," I say into his hair.

I feel him working his clitoris underneath; my balls touch his fingers every time I penetrate. I wonder if he likes my balls. He has never touched them directly.

"Do I feel good?" I ask, eyes closed.

"Yes," he says shakily.

"You never...ungh...say anything."

"I'm a bit preoccupied."

"I'm so hot for you...I'm so hard for you. Yes, keep fucking it. I’m coming. I’m coming.”

It is overwhelming, hearing his pussy make wet sounds under me, smelling it, feeling its grip, sensing its heat. I pull on his hips until I burst. The walls seem to shudder, pushing every molecule toward me, urging me to fill him. I do. God, I do.

Before I come down from my high, there is a giant clamour: a couple of bedside tables bang onto the floor, all the water glasses and jugs smash, and so does a framed picture of my parents.

I throw myself down beside Potter and puff, "Was all that spinning in the air a second ago?"

"Yes," he says amusedly.

"That's another reason why I have to see Snape." I look at my watch—ten minutes to spare! I rummage for my clothes again. "Can't stay to help you, I'm afraid."

Potter's eyes are half closed and his hand is still on his clitoris. "Do you still have my thing under your bed?"

His thing is the dildo, which we have stashed there for occasional use. I pull it out, and marvel at how much has changed since the first time I saw it. I toss it on the bed and hover over him.

"Er, no rush," I say. "You can stick around as long as you want."

Potter smiles languidly. Then he takes me by the neck, bumps our heads, and says, "Same to you."

***  


A moment later I'm walking through the dungeons—nearly skipping, in fact. I wonder if Potter will be in my bed when I return. I wonder if we will spend Christmas together. Only one thing nags at me. I pat my chest, and find a small photo, the one whose frame broke moments before.

There are my parents, mum waving and dad looking tense but happy. His arms are around her.

I don’t hate my father, though I resent him for betraying Mum. I cannot help thinking that I am betraying _him_ , as well. I cannot help wondering what he thought of me when I did not show up at the train station a week ago. Looking at this photo, I think he loves mum, or once did. Knowing this, it is clear that even though my father loves me the same, he is not above casting aside my death as a mere casualty of war. I will not give him that opportunity.

I look at my mother's sweet face, full of unconditional love, and put the picture away.

This is what sends me to Snape, I think. This is what keeps my magic burning.

I knock on Snape's door, enter, and find him waiting at his desk.

"I'm ready to begin,” I say.

**the end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sequel to this story is [Bearded Lady](http://archiveofourown.org/works/977109/chapters/1922303).


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